She squatted by the roadside
Shiny pink ruffles fluttering in the breeze.
Horns blared, headlights glanced
At her nakedness
Indecent for being so impersonal.

I looked away, unwilling to acknowledge
Her vulnerability.
The child's parents sell chaat.
They have no time or money to waste.
Just a living to make.

So we walk past, eyes averted
Or worse, watching her
Because we can.
She doesn't care, anyway.
Here, the rich can be shameless
The poor cannot afford shame.

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