In another Ahmedabad relief camp, a ten year-old tells me in a soft, steady voice how her home was burned, how her family assaulted. A horrible tale, but yes, she tells it to me in that soft, steady voice, almost an unsettling monotone. Hard to listen.
But it gets harder. For she is suddenly sobbing, sobbing, for her best friend. Her best friend till a couple of weeks ago.
That's another young girl. Stood in the road through the carnage in their village, saying over and over again that her father would come to save her. Only, he never did. He was already dead. And as she called to him, as this weeping waif who's telling me this watched her best friend, she herself was cut down.
Best friend no more.