They must have been migrant labourers, being driven from a construction site to the makeshift shanties where they would be housed for the duration of their contracts. Their arms reached up to hold on to grips from the instinctive fear of falling if the truck were to brake suddenly, though they had no room to fall. When I was about twenty feet away, I realised what I had mistaken for the rumps of camels were the arms and torsos of men pressed close together. Certain that these were camels being illegally transported to slaughterhouses, the animal rights activist in me fumbled for her phone and sped to get close enough to the van to capture evidence of the violation and the truck’s number plate. Once, as I was driving home late at night, I saw a box-like van with tired shapes huddled against each other.
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