On a cold and windy, rain-lashed day, in the summer of 2013, I took shelter inside a poncy boutique in New York and eyed a cream-white linen shirt, that was way beyond my credit limit. Pretending to be a genuine buyer, I took the shirt off its haute bamboo hanger and looked at the label.
Made in Bangladesh, it said.
And suddenly, I thought a little less of every piece of clothing around me.
For it reminded me of a haunting photograph that I had seen in the papers just a month earlier. An image of a dead man holding on to the wilted body of a woman, still half buried under the rubble of a collapsed building.

