Of course, since 2002 I have met many sex slaves, their stories full of cascading horrors. But for some reason, Natasha's really, really bothered me, and I've had a hard time coming to the page to put it all down. All I can do is try. (Like Saint Theresa of Kolkotta said, when chided for trying to feed all the poor in India, "My God only asks that I try.")

Natasha sat in a large chair, looking very small, frail, gorgeous, groomed. Her hair was long and lovely in a Veronica Lake type wave. She was soft spoken yet clear. Her English was pretty good, which further complicated my ability to accept her entrapment. The camera was set up to protect her identity, and in post production her voice will be replaced to guarantee her anonymity. Her life is at risk if her owner discovers what she has done: speak with us about the details of her life as a sex slave.

At about 18 (she is now about 21 or 22, many Indians can only approximate their age), Natasha traveled to Mumbai. She had relatives there. Her luggage was lost and there was a lot of confusion about her arrival. She managed to end up at girlfriend's apartment to spend the night as she sorted things out. Her friend was going out for the evening and invited her; she was happy to tag along. The friend took Natasha to a hotel. They went up to a guest room. A man was there. The friend smiled and left the room. To her bewilderment, Natasha realized she had been left there to have sex with the man. Fearing physical violence and feeling trapped with no way out, she did. When the man let her go, she went downstairs. Her friend was waiting. She slapped her face. The friend said, "Welcome to the garbage bin."

Natasha told me she is in hell and she cannot get out. Several times, she talked about the dumpster she was thrown in, how she cannot climb out of it. In a disastrous piece of timing, her relatives, whom she had been looking for, found her via her friend just as she was leaving the hotel. They put together why she was such a nice hotel, and immediately rejected and disowned her for a whore. She had no where to go but back to her friend's apartment where her fate in the sex industry was sealed. Simultaneously, her relatives were ensuring this information got back home. She was swiftly, irrevocably blackballed and ostracized by her family there.

Natasha's story is a complex puzzle that is a combination of truly being trapped and the perception of being trapped. That makes it hard to describe; it also makes my dismay deeper. Here are some questions I asked, and her answers:

Read Ashley's full post here.

We walked down very, very narrow poured concrete paths, in the middle of which open drains flow. Any questions about poor people’s lives and diets, just check those ubiquitous gutters. Tiny rooms darted off in every direction, left right, high, low. It was another claustrophobic labyrinth teeming with poor people’s lives, stories, and fates. Most had only cloth for doors. Music poured out of many. Babies cried. It was all so small, like a surrealist's version of a doll’s house, except one that mockingly tries to accommodate thousands.

Ruchira Gupta had to walk behind me; two astride don’t fit. She explained the girls group wanted to show me a bird’s eye view of their world. I carefully stepped up the tight steps which took several turns, before emerging onto a small roof that indeed overlooked this neighborhood. I thought of Matisse’s tile roofs in the south of France, of how Cezanne took the art of interpreting space and structure into little triangles. I wondered what Van Gogh would have done with it, could he have found in this cramped view space for his curvilinear brush stroke? It was their subject matter, but India, 2007. The roof levels varied and they each were so tiny, like the houses below them.

Nothing I've done or seen could have prepared me for what happened next. I emerged from the car to face a tiny, dark tunnel that began between two shanties which were actually exposed entirely at the front. The tunnel, about 18" wide and less than 6' tall, was entirely black - no light at all. The uneven cement was wet from an unseen water source. I hunched down, let my eyes adjust, and held that hand of 16 year old, Nasreen, who escorted me into the reality of this "housing" compound that accommodates 10,000 people. It twisted and turned unexpectedly, I never got my bearings. Noise was all around, the sounds of people living...conversations, a t.v. (there is more jerry rigged electric around here, it's amazing none of it goes on fire), and children squealing. The children, who had been at the car when I arrived, would crazily appear in cracks along our way that were so small I hadn't thought they were passageways. Yet, from floor to ceiling the slim, dark space would impossibly fill with faces.

Eventually, Nasreen and I arrived at a wooden ladder, which we climbed up into the 2 tiny rooms she shares with her HIV+ mother, Kausar, and her brother. Incredibly, this is a double decker affair, one stacked on top of the other. I was pretty much speechless...there are no words. One truly has to see it to grasp what I am vaguely intimating.

When Kausar found out she was HIV+ in the 1999, the doctor said, "There are drugs, you cannot afford, them, and you'll be dead in 5 minutes anyway." Indignant, she ripped her test result paper in half and slapped him across the face. He pressed charges. In court, she spoke on her own behalf. The judge saw things her way, and demanded the doctor pay her a small fee in damages. Hence, a spit fire of an HIV activist was born. Kausur works for PSI and escorts other HIV+ patients as they go to doctors, receive care, etc. She has a fierce innate sense of justice.

Read Ashley's full blog entry here.

A lovely young man showed me a powerpoint presentation about our micro finance and credit programs. It was utterly thrilling. CSWs (Commericial Sex Workers) are in unbreakable cycles of vicious debt: to the people who own them, the madams who run the brothels, and the money lenders who do the classic scam of high interest rates when a woman has an emergency and cannot say no. The deal is so stacked against them, and they suffer, their children suffer, the families back home whom they are supporting suffer.

Our program seeks to remedy that, emphatically interrupting the cycle for them, yet, it is run by them. The women are counseled about the importance of savings and encouraged to set goals: their children's education, for example. Sangini, which means "friend," creates a photo I.D. for each CSW. Identification is a huge barrier to banking, as they require papers, such as a birth certificate. These women simply do not have such since they were trafficked, tricked, or simply so rural and poor, or all of the above. Each day, someone from Sangini will come to each brothel to pick up deposits, even if it is only 1 rupee. The member may withdraw her money at any time, in any amount, without penalty; while deposited, it earns a healthy, fair interest. It's simply the neatest operation. They have outfoxed the cheaters and owners at every move with targeted fiscal intervention that puts what the CSW earns under her own control for the first time!!!