The golden Punjab fields stretched endless outside the old brick haveli, wheat swaying in the March breeze like a sea of green-gold. Inside, the thick walls kept the house cool, but the joint family energy made everything feel close, crowded, intimate. Aryan, nineteen and back from college in Chandigarh, had been noticing his chachi Anjali more than he should. She was thirty-eight, wife to his chacha (father’s younger brother), a woman whose body had softened and ripened from years of cooking massive family meals, tending the small dairy cows, and bearing the quiet neglect of a husband who preferred the fields and daaru over her bed.

Anjali’s figure was full Punjabi perfection: wide hips from bearing children who had grown and moved to cities, a soft belly that spoke of ghee-laden parathas, thick thighs that rubbed together when she walked, and above all, those enormous, heavy boobs that strained every salwar-kameez and dupatta she wore. The dupatta often slipped when she bent to milk the buffalo or roll rotis, revealing deep cleavage and the outline of a tight bra fighting to contain the weight. Her nipples, dark and thick from disuse, poked through fabric like they were desperate for attention.