Priya lay exactly as her father had left her—naked on the dark bedsheet, thighs parted, the slow leak of his third load still seeping from her swollen cunt onto the fabric beneath her. The ceiling fan turned in lazy circles, cooling the sweat on her skin. From the living room she could hear every word.

Meena’s voice was bright and slightly breathless from the stairs. “I realised I had left the extra rice flour in my kitchen. For the modaks. You can’t make proper ones without enough. The rain is getting worse, na? Water is already coming up near the ground-floor steps.”