Sarita adjusted her top and reapplied her lipstick. It was almost noon, when most business men took their lunch hour. It was also a good time for Sarita to find clients. She often made more money now than at night. Apparently, men were always hungry at this time, and not just for food.

Sarita shared this corner with one of the street vendors, Mr. Sridrar. He was a soft-spoken man, about 70. His samosas were famous in Mumbai, perhaps because he used only the freshest coriander and chutney.

As Sarita impatiently tapped her toe, Mr. Sridrar sidled up to her holding something in a paper napkin. “Here, take it, take it.” He placed the warm bundle in her hand. Inside was a golden, flaky samosa. He watched as the young woman stuffed the pastry into her mouth, swallowing it in one greedy gulp.

“You remind me of my daughter.”

Sarita was ready to retort in her usual sarcastic way when something in the old man’s eyes silenced her. It was a hungry look, but not for food or sex. She wiped her mouth and walked away.