The small vegetable shop at the edge of the market was humid, smelling of fresh coriander and rain-soaked earth. It was late, and the street outside was thinning out, but the air inside was electric.

Anjali stood by the crates of tomatoes, her back to the owner, Kabir. She was a vision in a black chiffon saree that was more shadow than fabric. It clung to her hourglass curves like a second skin, draped so low that the silver thread of her waist-chain glattered against her honey-toned skin. Her blouse was a daring piece of art—barely a strip of black silk held by thin strings, her breasts swelling against the edges, nearly spilling over every time she reached for a vegetable.