Khagra is a spread-out cluster of rundown brick homes, hovels with tin roofs and a few thatched huts. It's ten minutes from Kishanganj railway station, not much farther from the bus stand, and very close to the highway.
There couldn't have been a better location for men who want to buy sex.
One afternoon this week, I walked through Khagra, where women with painted faces sat outside homes. I approached an older woman who looked like the madam of the house. "There are no dhande waali girls here," she said, reluctant to talk. "We are here to attend a wedding."
I had better luck at the next house. The madam was a young woman. Dressed in a nightie, with a dupatta around her head, she was willing to chat. We sat on a bench under a tree. Her name was Minara Parveen. She had never cast a vote.
"I have a voter card, but it is in my sasuraal (husband's home) in Siwan," she said. "I'm trying to get it here. I want to vote this time."
"Who would you vote for?"
"Whoever does good by us. Who does not discriminate between girl and boy…"
Just then, her mobile rang. The ringtone was the song, Jeevan ke safari mein humsafar bhi chhoot jaate hai – In life, even fellow travellers fall behind. It could have been the life story of most women here. An area of grinding poverty, proximate to both Nepal and Bangladesh, Kishanganj is a major trafficking hot spot, with four red light areas of its own.
“Jab se mobile aaya hai dekh rahe hai bewajah ka pyaar ho jaata hai. Wrong number se bhi pyaar ho jaata hai baat karte karte. Ever since mobile phones came, there is love happening for no reason. People are falling in love even while talking to wrong numbers,” said Minara. “The men come here for two-four days. They exchange mobile numbers with the girls. If it was possible, they would do everything on phones…”
Minara's sister eloped with a man who wooed her by phone. "When I had first heard what was happening, I told him to get his parents to meet us if he wanted to marry her. For a few days he didn't come. Later, we heard the two were in touch over phone. My sister ran away and after a few days she called to say didi I am married and happy. I was thrilled. I said what else do I want. But then we began getting distress calls from her…"
The man had taken her to Delhi. "There's some place called GB Road there?" Minara asked me.
He forced Minara's sister to have sex with other men. "He thought he could both have a wife in his bed at night and an instrument to make money in the day."
The torture became acute after Minara's sister got pregnant. She gave birth to a girl and both mother and child were thrown out. "Maybe he would have kept them if the child was a boy…"
"The men who come from outside carry expensive mobiles and wear flashy clothes. They must be taking them on rent. But the girls are fooled. They think these men must be from good families. They are lured into running away. Now tell me if those men were from good families, why would they be here?"
***
"My parents support me. But there is always talk in the community. Samaj mein do chaar baat hota rehta hai."
"What sort of talk?"
People say, "is there really so much work in the college that she needs to go out so often? Ladki ko chhoot de ke rakhi hai. You have given too much freedom to your daughter. But my parents ignore it. They say, duniya badal gayi hai."
Nurshadi Begum is the first girl in her extended family to complete school and enroll in college. Her father belongs to a family of seven brothers. All of them have daughters. All of them are married, barring Nurshadi, and her younger cousin Reshma Parveen, who inspired by her has enrolled in 11th standard.
I met both the girls outside Kishanganj's Marwari College. Reshma was shy, but Nurshadi exuded great confidence, dressed in a short and stylish kurta and churidaar, with a string of pearls around her neck, rings on her fingers, and hair tied up loose and flowing in a high ponytail.
"Today there are no classes," she explained, "but we have come because Reshma needs to fill a form to get the grant of Rs 1,000 for her college dress."
Cycles, stipends, grants and cash prizes are ways in which Bihar’s government has tried to incentivise girls to get educated. Nurshadi got Rs 10,000 when she topped her school in 10th standard board exams.
At that time, she had moved to Kishanganj town from her village, which has an astonishing name – Karbala Kashi Bara, the hamlet of Karbala and Kashi.
Living in a rented house in the town with four of her classmates, Nurshadi attended science and maths tuitions. She did very well in the board exams, and wanted to continue science in college, but living away from home did not seem viable. She enrolled in a BA course, and started to work as a teacher at Diamond Public School, the private English-medium school in the village. She attends college in the afternoon, after teaching at the school in the morning.
"People say what's the need to send girls to school. She has to stay at home and work. I tell them even then you must educate her. If nothing, she would better manage the house, and when her child goes to school, she would be able to monitor his progress," said Nurshadi, who is enjoying teaching enough to want to acquire professional qualifications in the discipline.
It helps that the newly opened Aligarh Muslim University centre in Kishanganj offers B.Ed courses. Both the Congress at the centre and the Janata Dal (United) government in the state have been competing to take credit for it.
I asked Nurshadi who would she vote for. "Whoever works for the poor, constructs roads, gives rozgaar guarantee," she says.
It doesn't take long to find out that her family has traditionally supported the Congress.
As we stood talking, her phone rang. "Anju, we are in college…yes, the forms are available…"
Like in many other parts of India, mobile phones have been rather controversial in Kishanganj too. In December 2012, The Times of India reported, "In a khap-like diktat in Bihar otherwise not known for khap panchayats, a meeting of villagers of Sunderbari panchayat in Kishanganj district have ordered complete ban on the use of cellphones by unmarried girls and restricted use of the same by married women only within the four walls of their home."
"When did you get a mobile phone?" I asked Nurshadi.
"After I started teaching at the school. They [school authorities] might want to get in touch with me," she said, before quickly adding, "It is ghar ka phone, the family's phone. But I carry it when I come outside. My parents only ask me to keep it, so that I call in case there is a need."
"Do people comment on your use of a mobile?"
"Of course, they do…Most girls are not allowed to keep them."
***
"I was the first person here to get a mobile phone," said Minara. "Way back in 2001. It was a Samsung. It cost Rs 11,000. I needed it to stay in touch with the orchestra."
Minara calls herself a dancer. She says she has never done sex work.
She lost her parents while young. She and her siblings moved in with an aunt in Khagra. "Bhua was not in this line. She only rented out rooms to others," Minara explains.
In her teenage years, Minara began travelling with a troupe to dance at weddings. They would dance on stages girded by iron barriers. Even though the dances were never ashleel, as they were meant for family audiences, the crowds would often grow restive. Once a man tried to pull her down from the stage to forcibly take her away, but she resisted. He fired at her in rage. She managed to escape in the melee. But the bullet injury has left a scar on her left arm.
Later, she met her husband at the dances. "We got married in the presence of family," she says, with visible pride. She lived with her in-laws, but continued to dance on the sly during the wedding season. "My husband was upset. But I told him you can earn to support me, but I need to earn to support my whole family." She quit only when her daughter grew up and began to imitate her moves."Meri beti meri chaya utaarne lagi."
After her sister's marriage broke up, she came back to live with Minara in Khagra, to manage the house, while her sister plied the trade. Soon, they were joined by her sister-in-law, who had also been dumped by her husband, after she had given birth to a girl child. All three women have sent their daughters away to live with a relative in the village. "My husband works in a small motor parts shop. I want to quickly save Rs two lakh-Rs three lakh to start another business for all of us. A cloth shop, a beauty parlour, anything," she said.
It came as no surprise when Minara told me what she wanted from a leader.
"Jo kahawat hai na ki aurat ko aurat na samjhe. The leader who is sensitive to women, who understands women. Even women have the right to live their lives. I agree that not everyone can get a job with Tatas and Birlas, but at least we should get a chance to live an ordinary life, to not be a burden on others."
Minara says she wants to vote this time, but does not know who to vote for. She used to like Rajiv Gandhi, and would be happy to vote for whomever has taken his place, but she doesn't know who that is.
"We have to find out more about the leaders…There's this person coming a lot on TV. Kaun Modi? Narendra Modi," she said, fumbling over the name. "We are getting to hear that he is very dangerous for Muslims. We are scared. Kahin jeet ke Hindustan mein riot na kara de. We are worried what if our children get separated from us. Whoever comes to power should see people as humans and not as cattle to slaughter. Insaan ko insaan samajhe, jaanwar bhais bakri na samajhe. That's all we want."
Click here to read all the stories Supriya Sharma has filed about her 2,500-km rail journey from Guwahati to Jammu to listen to India's conversations about the forthcoming elections -- and life.