The afternoon sun slanted through the narrow kitchen window, casting golden stripes across the worn marble counter. I was wiping the last of the steel utensils dry when I heard the familiar sound of his motorcycle pulling into the driveway. Kitna waqt ho gaya? Two hours since Madam had left for her kitty party, draped in that heavy Kanjeevaram, smelling of rose attar and arrogance. She never noticed how my fingers lingered on the copper lota when she walked past, or how my breath caught when she bent over to pick something from the lower shelf, her blouse straining against her full breasts.

But her husband noticed everything.