Daughters Of The Red Light: Coming Of Age In Mumbai's Brothels - Plot & Excerpts
said my new supervisor, disdainfully running her eyes over my black capris and short-sleeve scoop-neck purple T-shirt. “Yes, of course,” I stammered in embarrassment. “I don’t expect to… I’ll wear Indian clothes when I visit the brothels.” I cursed myself for not choosing a more appropriate outfit to meet the head of an anti-trafficking nonprofit that helps sex workers and their children in Mumbai. I went straight home and rifled through the bottom shelves of my closet, looking for my loosest, most modest salwaar khameezes. I found a full-sleeve pink-and-green one that looked about right. And then a synthetic black one that would dry quickly if it got wet in the monsoon. Or the flowing blue khameez with a geometric pattern of overlapping diamonds that belonged to my grandmother. I hoped they’d keep me unnoticed. When I ventured into the brothels of Falkland Road a few days later, everyone turned to stare. The lungi-clad men in the dank hallways I’d anticipated. But I was unnerved when the women swiveled their heads to gawk at me.
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