The evening air inside our kothi was thick with the stench of whiskey and roasted meat. Papa had invited his four closest friends from the village, Ramesh uncle, Mohan uncle, Suresh uncle, and Dinesh uncle. They were all men of the soil, broad and strong, with hands calloused from years of ploughing and lifting, and eyes that had seen too many seasons of hunger and lust. I had been told to dress carefully, a soft georgette saree that Papa had chosen himself, the blouse cut dangerously low, the petticoat tight around my hips. I knew what was coming. I had learned to read Papa's invitations, and the way the four uncles looked at me when I entered the hall, their eyes crawling over every inch of my body, told me I was the evening's main course.