As I’m reading, the stories I’m finding are chilling. Some of the writers are brilliant. Too brilliant perhaps. Their words make my skin crawl. Yet it spurs me to read further, talk more, SHOUT if I have to. It is forcing me to open my eyes – wide – and never shut them.
Then suddenly my Indian friend touched my arm. “Look,” he said. “There is the prostitute village.” And I was shocked beyond words. The road we were on was a major traffic artery but it was just two vehicles wide and it shot right through this wide-spot-in-the-road. There were trenches on each side of the road, with boards placed across the trenches at intervals. No side streets, no sidewalks, just a few dusty huts, some men squatting around, trucks and buses streaming by on the highway — and beds. Rickety cots lined the roadside. And standing in front of the cots were — children! Heartbreaking.
Sweet girls as young as ten years old.