The sweltering heat of the small, tin-roofed shack near the construction site felt like a terminal, white-hot weight. Outside, the dust and the clanging of iron never stopped, but inside, the air was thick with the scent of sweat and cheap jasmine oil.

Radha stood by the small wooden cradle, her fair skin glistening with a film of perspiration. Her saree was a thin, worn-out cotton, draped dangerously low on her hips, barely held by a tarnished silver waistchain. Her blouse was so tight and small that the fabric strained against her heaving chest, the hooks rusted and ready to snap.