Mahi walked barefoot along the narrow dirt path that cut through the rice paddies, the morning sun already hot on her bare shoulders. At nineteen she still lived with her parents in the small village, but every day she volunteered to work the fields because the open air and the sight of the men made her body ache in ways she could not explain to anyone. She wore only a thin white cotton blouse that clung to her small breasts and a short wrap skirt that barely reached mid-thigh. Underneath she was naked; the rough fabric rubbed her nipples and the soft skin between her legs with every step.

She reached the flooded section where five farmers were already knee-deep in the water, their dark skin glistening with sweat. They were older, strong from years of hard labor, and they had noticed how Mahi lingered near them, how her eyes followed the way their muscles moved when they bent to plant seedlings. Today she had come alone, and the men exchanged quick glances before one of them, Ramesh, called out to her.