Voices from the Shadows: Chandigarh's Call Girls Unite to Register a Political Party for Rights and Dignity

Introduction: A Hidden Revolution in the City Beautiful

Chandigarh, often hailed as India's "City Beautiful" for its modernist architecture and planned urban grid, harbors stories far removed from its postcard perfection. Beneath the surface of this Union Territory lies a thriving yet stigmatized underworld of sex work. Here, women known colloquially as "call girls" navigate a life of quiet desperation, balancing societal scorn with the harsh economics of survival. But in recent months, a whisper of change has turned into a roar. These women, long invisible in the corridors of power, are now banding together to form their own political party—the Sahodari Sangh (Sisters' Alliance). Their goal? To register with the Election Commission of India (ECI) and advocate for decriminalization, healthcare access, and dignity. This isn't just a bid for votes; it's a reclamation of agency in a system that has long overlooked them.

The spark ignited in the dimly lit alleys of Sector 22, where over a dozen women, aged 25 to 45, gathered in a makeshift community center funded by grassroots donations. Led by Rani Devi, a 38-year-old veteran of the trade who escaped trafficking at 16, the group drafted a manifesto that fuses personal testimonies with policy demands. "We've voted for promises that never reached us," Rani says, her voice steady despite the scars of rejection. "Now, we'll make the promises ourselves." This movement draws from broader Indian narratives of sex worker rights, where the Supreme Court has repeatedly affirmed dignity under Article 21 of the Constitution. Yet, in Chandigarh's conservative fabric, their audacity feels revolutionary.

The Plight of Chandigarh's Call Girls: Survival Amid Stigma

Sex work in Chandigarh isn't a monolith; it's a mosaic of coercion, choice, and circumstance. Many women arrive from neighboring states like Bihar and Uttar Pradesh, lured by urban myths of opportunity only to find themselves ensnared in flesh trade networks. A 2017 investigation revealed heartbreaking tales: abandoned by families, widowed young, or fleeing domestic abuse, these women turn to "calling" clients via discreet networks to feed their children or pay rent in the city's exorbitant housing market. The trade thrives in budget hotels, upscale apartments, and even online apps, generating an estimated Rs. 500 crore annually in the tricity area—but at what cost?

Health crises loom large. Without legal protections, access to STI testing or contraception is sporadic, often reliant on NGOs like the Azad Foundation. Police raids, meant to "rescue," frequently end in humiliation or bribery demands. "We're not criminals," asserts Meera, a 29-year-old mother of two who services executives in Sector 17. "But the law treats us like one." The Immoral Traffic (Prevention) Act, 1956, criminalizes brothel-keeping and solicitation, pushing the trade underground and exacerbating violence. In Chandigarh, where moral policing blends with urban policing, these women face double marginalization: as migrants in a planned city and as pariahs in polite society.

Yet, resilience brews. Informal collectives have long existed, pooling resources for emergencies or legal aid. The Sahodari Sangh formalizes this, inspired by national movements like the All India Network of Sex Workers, which has lobbied for over two decades. Their platform calls for labor rights—pensions, unionization—and an end to vigilante harassment. By entering politics, they aim to shift from victims to voters, leveraging Chandigarh's 1.1 million population to amplify their voice in local municipal elections.

The Road to Registration: Navigating India's Political Labyrinth

Forming a political party in India is no small feat; it's a bureaucratic odyssey governed by Section 29A of the Representation of the People Act, 1951. The Sahodari Sangh's journey began in July 2025, mere weeks after their inaugural meeting. First, they assembled a core committee of 50 members, ensuring at least 10% representation from marginalized castes, reflecting India's diverse social fabric. A constitution was penned on ruled notebooks: five pages outlining objectives like "de-stigmatizing consensual adult labor" and "mandatory sex education in schools."

The application process demands precision. Within 30 days of the party's "formation date"—marked by a notarized resolution—the group submitted their dossier to the ECI's New Delhi headquarters. Key requirements included an affidavit from the president (Rani), sworn before a first-class magistrate, affirming no foreign funding and commitment to the Indian Constitution. They enclosed a Rs. 10,000 demand draft as a non-refundable deposit, scraped together from member contributions and a crowdfunding drive on encrypted apps.

Organizational charts followed: a list of 100 proposed office-bearers with Aadhaar-verified addresses, emphasizing Chandigarh's sectors 15, 22, and 35 as strongholds. The party's emblem? A blooming lotus intertwined with a raised fist—symbolizing purity amid struggle. The ECI's scrutiny is rigorous; applications are vetted for anti-national elements, with public notices inviting objections. For the Sangh, this phase unearthed vulnerabilities: anonymous threats from local goons and skepticism from allies. "They say we're unfit for politics," Rani laughs bitterly. "But who better to fight corruption than those who've survived it?"

By September, their file reached the Commission, joining a queue of 2,800 registered parties nationwide. Approval isn't guaranteed—only recognized parties gain symbols and tax exemptions—but even provisional status grants legitimacy. The Sangh's innovation? Door-to-door campaigns in red-light pockets, where pamphlets double as literacy aids.

Challenges and Triumphs: Barriers to Ballot Power

The path is fraught. Funding remains a specter; without corporate backing, they rely on micro-donations, evading the Foreign Contribution Regulation Act's pitfalls. Internal dynamics test resolve: generational rifts between street-based workers and elite escorts, or fears of exposure outing family ties. External pushback is fiercer—moral guardians decry their "moral pollution" of politics, echoing colonial-era puritanism.

Yet triumphs glimmer. In October 2025, the ECI acknowledged their application, a milestone celebrated with a subdued diya-lighting in a Sector 26 park. Alliances form: feminists from Panjab University offer legal clinics, while Dalit activists bridge caste lines. Nationally, echoes resound; sex worker collectives in Kolkata and Mumbai watch closely, pondering similar forays.

This isn't tokenism. The Sangh eyes Chandigarh's mayoral polls, targeting issues like slum evictions that displace their community. Their slogan—"From Shadows to Parliament"—resonates, drawing curious youth disillusioned by dynastic politics.

Conclusion: A Call for Inclusive Democracy

The Sahodari Sangh's registration bid transcends Chandigarh's borders, challenging India's democracy to embrace its fringes. In a nation where 3 million sex workers toil unseen, their story underscores a truth: true progress demands amplifying the silenced. As Rani reflects, "We've sold our bodies for scraps. Now, we'll sell our vision for change." If approved, this party could shatter ceilings, proving that empowerment blooms where oppression once reigned. In the City Beautiful's shadows, a new light flickers—fierce, unapologetic, and utterly human.