The kitchen of the haveli was thick with the smell of simmering spices and warm milk. Afternoon light filtered through the high jali windows, painting golden patterns across the stone floor. Sarita stood at the low wooden table, her crimson sari still slightly disheveled from earlier, the pallu loosely draped. She was grinding something in a stone sil-batta, her heavy breasts swaying gently with every movement, the thin blouse stretched tight. Sweat glistened at the hollow of her throat. She had tried to compose herself after the corridor, washing her face, retying her hair, pretending the wetness between her thighs and the ache in her nipples were not real. But her body still hummed.

The heavy wooden door creaked.