Ishani stood barefoot on the cracked tiles of their 1BHK chawl flat, the thin silk nighty clinging to her body in the sticky Mumbai humidity. Full-length, soft as water, with a neckline that plunged almost to her navel and short sleeves that left her arms bare. The fabric was so sheer in places that the outline of her 34B breasts, the slight curve of her waist, and the soft roundness of her ass were visible when she moved under the single bulb in the bedroom.

Raj was already snoring on the narrow bed, one arm thrown over his eyes. Forty years old, always tired, always buried in work that barely paid the rent. He had never noticed how the nighty sat on her, how the deep neck and the open back with its thin dori strings made her look like the girl who had once lived in a proper house with servants and air-conditioning. That girl had eloped for love. Her family had cut her off the same night. Now she lived here: bedroom barely big enough for the bed, kitchen merged into the hall, bathroom nothing more than a corner with thin curtains, toilet shared with the whole floor.