I am Nayana. Twenty-six years old. Living in a modest two-BHK in a crowded Delhi colony with my parents and my younger brother. My body has always been a quiet problem. Medium breasts that sit high and full, soft enough to spill slightly over the edges of any bra I wear. And my ass… God, my ass is the real trouble. Round, heavy, high, and thick. When I walk, it moves on its own—slow, deliberate rolls that pull the fabric of my joggers tight across each cheek. People stare. Men, women, even old uncles. Their eyes stick to the curve where my back dips into those heavy globes. I feel their gazes like heat on my skin. Sometimes I slow my steps on purpose, just to let the weight of my ass sway a little longer.

Most days Ma sends me to the vegetable shop. “Nayana, thoda tomatoes aur hari mirch le aana,” she calls from the kitchen while I sit with my brother watching some mindless TV serial. Today is no different.