The dusty lanes of Suryakollam follow the slow course of the tarry river below. It’s close to noon — a man wearing a lungi stands by the water brushing his teeth. The whitewashed mud-brick houses and thatched roofs glow in the hot sun. Cloth doors hang listlessly in the heat. A vintage Bollywood tune mixed to reggae booms through the air, adding unexpected festivity — unexpected because Suryakollam is the local red-light district. I’d assumed that a red-light district in India would be a sad sort of place.
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