On 9th February 2026, during my exposure visit to Kutch Mahila Vikas Sangathan (KMVS) in Bhuj, I spent time engaging with the Samvedna programme. Among all the powerful initiatives the organisation runs, this was the one I was most keen to understand. I had carried a quiet curiosity about it even before the visit, perhaps because it works in a space that is deeply stigmatised, complex, and often misunderstood.
While I had some prior understanding of its collectivisation model and support mechanisms, stepping into the field felt entirely different from reading or hearing about it. There are certain programmes we admire from a distance, and then there are those that compel us to confront our assumptions and learn more intentionally. For me, Samvedna was the latter.
When I was told that we would be visiting a brothel area, I did not approach it with strong assumptions or preconceived notions. I had not constructed a mental image of what it would look like or feel like. I simply knew that this was an important part of understanding the programme. However, being there affected me more than I had anticipated, not because of moral discomfort, but because of the atmosphere and spatial realities of the place.
I had assumed it might be located on the periphery of the city, somewhat removed from everyday life. Instead, it was situated almost at the centre of a bustling area. Shops were open, people were moving around, traffic flowed as usual. Life outside seemed ordinary. And yet, within that ordinary landscape, there existed a pocket of intense marginalisation.
The discomfort came from the constrained living spaces, the density of vulnerability in such close quarters. There was something about the spatial compression, physical and social, that stayed with me. During the visit, I was simply trying to observe and listen. Later, Chetan ji, who had taken us there, mentioned that it would have been better if I had carried a scarf and covered my face, as that is the norm in that area. I had not even thought about it at the time. That small detail unsettled me further how invisibility becomes a practice, how anonymity becomes protection, how certain spaces demand erasure as a condition of entry.
Before this visit, I used to wonder why would someone remain in such work, especially given the stigma and hardships attached to it? It was never a question of respectability. It was a question that came from distance. But distance can distort understanding.
As we sat and spoke with the women, their stories unfolded in layers, poverty, abandonment, domestic violence, lack of viable livelihood options, intergenerational responsibilities. There wasn’t a single story. There were patterns. Circumstances that narrowed choices over time until survival itself became the priority. What I had earlier framed as an individual decision began to look more like the outcome of structural exclusions.
One thought kept returning to me: society often creates the conditions that push women into certain kinds of labour and then punishes them for surviving within those conditions. The same systems that restrict education, mobility, and economic independence later stigmatise the women who navigate those restrictions in whatever ways they can. The contradiction is sharp. It is easier to moralise than to take responsibility for structural inequality.
And yet, what stayed with me most was not the stigma but the strength. The women were not passive recipients of support. They were sharp, self-aware, and deeply pragmatic. The resilience required to negotiate clients, manage households, handle social hostility, and still show up for collective meetings is immense. The more I listened, the more I found myself in awe of them.
Samvedna’s strength lies in collectivisation. With 550 members and 17–18 leaders, it is not simply offering services; it is building solidarity. Through regular meetings, health linkages, legal awareness, crisis response, and leadership development, the programme reduces isolation. There is something powerful about women who are otherwise stigmatised coming together to speak, plan, and support each other. The yearly reflection meeting we attended made this especially visible, members openly discussed challenges, reviewed strategies, and identified ways forward. It did not feel like charity. It felt like organised resilience.
I realised that when we speak about “empowerment,” we often imagine something dramatic and immediate. But here, empowerment looked gradual. It looked like showing up consistently. It looked like identifying leaders from within the community rather than importing them from outside. It looked like women negotiating for health access, supporting each other in crises, and slowly shifting how they are treated in institutional spaces.
Personally, this visit unsettled me in ways I am grateful for. It made me examine how easily I had framed my earlier questions around individual choice rather than systemic constraint. It also made me more attentive to how stigma operates, quietly, persistently, shaping everyday life.
As someone working on anemia awareness and nutrition among adolescent girls and postnatal mothers, I could not help but think about how health is never isolated from social realities. If mobility is restricted, if livelihoods are unstable, if stigma shapes access to services, health outcomes are inevitably affected. Any intervention that ignores these layers risks remaining superficial.
I left Samvedna carrying discomfort, yes but also deep respect. Respect for the women who navigate hostile structures daily. Respect for a programme that chooses collectivisation over tokenism. And humility about how much more there is to understand when we allow ourselves to step into spaces that challenge our assumptions.
This exposure visit did not give me neat answers. Instead, it gave me better questions that needs to be asked and a stronger conviction that meaningful change begins with listening, staying present, and recognising strength where society often refuses to look.
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