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Eight year old Sneha skipped down the lane way toward her home, her tiny feet deftly avoiding the puddles formed by women scouring pots and washing clothes. Moving quickly out of Sneha’s way, a wiry balding cat scattered into a dark doorway and a wide-eyed baby stopped chewing on a piece of wood used as a doorway barricade to watch Sneha run by. I was rustling through the plastic bag I was carrying when some children and their mothers noticed what Sneha was clutching to her chest and dropped what they were doing to rush at me in a frenzy of flailing arms and high-pitched chatter. Surrounded by a growing mob grabbing at the plastic bag I was holding tightly, I looked for a rational face; some

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