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Weekly Contest #80
Bombay, 1957. Ten in the morning on a Saturday is hardly a good time to visit prostitutes. It was Ashraf who dragged me here. Some prostitute he wants me to meet, who will speak at Azad Maidan today. Already my fair chitpawan[1] skin is burning in the merciless blazing sun, and I cannot see Ashraf anywhere. A lot of women here. And men too. Mostly illiterate yokels—fisherwomen, vegetable sellers, your kaam-wali-bai[2], the utensil scrubbers, beggars, trash pickers. Then with dismay, I spot some middle-class housewives, college girls, teach...
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