Before the world tipped into something darker, before she learned exactly how many shades of surrender a body could hold, Priya Sharma existed in a cramped corner of a Mumbai flat where the air was thick with expectation and the walls had ears.
Her mother’s voice was a constant companion, a low frequency hum of correction that burrowed into her bones. The words rarely changed. Too big, Priya, your breasts are too big. Cover yourself properly. You walk like you’re inviting them, like you want them to look. Stop biting your lip like that, it’s vulgar. You were born with sin written on your skin, and I am the one who has to scrub it off.
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