Chapter 3

The air conditioning inside the ‘Pink Orchid’ was set to arctic, a sharp, shocking contrast to the humid tropical heat outside. The salon smelled of chemicals—peroxide, acetone, and burning hair—and the sound of blow dryers died down abruptly as Zubeidha stumbled in, flanked by the three boys.

The receptionist, a young woman with bright pink streaks in her hair and a bored expression, looked up. Her eyes widened, taking in the spectacle: the voluptuous, trembling older woman practically spilling out of an ill-fitting bikini, flanked by three teenaged boys who looked like wolves circling a wounded deer.

“We have an appointment for a ... waxing,” Ravi announced, his voice echoing in the sudden silence of the salon. “Full Hollywood.”

The receptionist blinked, her gaze drifting to the thick, dark hair visibly bursting from the edges of Zubeidha’s bikini bottoms. “Oh. Wow. Okay. That ... that is going to take a while, honey. It’s very dense. You’re looking at least an hour, maybe two. And it’s going to hurt like hell.”

“Two hours?” Ravi scoffed, checking his imaginary watch. “We don’t have that kind of time. We have a beach party to get to.”

He looked around the salon, his eyes landing on a display of grooming tools near the washbasins. “Forget the wax. It’s too slow. Just shave her.”

“Shave?” The receptionist frowned, standing up. “We can’t just shave that, it’s—”

“Bring me the scissors and a razor,” Ravi cut her off, his voice hardening. He walked over to the reception desk and slapped a wad of rupees on the counter—a thick stack that made the receptionist’s eyes pop. “And plenty of hot towels. We don’t want her to get razor burn, do we?”

The receptionist looked at the money, then at Zubeidha’s terrified face, and then at the boys who were clearly in charge. She swallowed, her professional judgment wavering under the weight of the cash and the boys’ aggressive energy. “Right this way,” she muttered, gesturing to a large, black leather reclining chair in the corner of the room.

The entire salon was watching now. Every stylist and client had turned their chairs or paused their dryers to witness the drama. Zubeidha felt as though a spotlight were trained on her. She walked toward the chair as if marching to the gallows, her legs trembling so violently she nearly tripped.

“Sit,” Ravi commanded.

Zubeidha sank into the leather chair. It was cold against her bare back. She instinctively tried to close her legs, pressing her knees together, but there was nowhere to hide. The stylist, a middle-aged woman with a stern face, approached with a towel and a bowl of warm water.

“Legs up, dear,” the stylist said, her voice surprisingly gentle, but her hands were firm as she took Zubeidha’s ankle.

“No, wait,” Zubeidha gasped, gripping the armrests of the chair until her knuckles turned white. “Not here. Not with everyone watching.”

“Hush,” Ravi said, leaning over the back of the chair, his mouth near Zubeidha’s ear. “You want to be clean, don’t you? You want Jamal to be proud of you? Spread them.”

The stylist, a woman named Sheila who had seen it all in twenty years of Goa business, didn’t wait for Zubeidha to obey. She efficiently unlocked the footrest of the reclining chair and pushed it back. The mechanical whir of the chair reclining seemed deafening to Zubeidha. She was pushed flat on her back, her legs hoisted up into the stirrups, leaving her completely exposed to the bright fluorescent lights of the salon.

The air conditioner vent blew directly between her open legs, raising goosebumps on the sensitive skin of her inner thighs. The black bikini bottom was doing nothing to preserve her dignity; the fabric was swallowed by the hair, the elastic cutting into her flesh.

“Please,” Zubeidha whispered, squeezing her eyes shut. She could hear the snickers of the other clients—foreign girls with smooth, tanned legs and manicured toes. “Let the lady do it. Please.”

“Sheila is going to prep the area,” Ravi said, his hand coming down to rest on Zubeidha’s shoulder, pinning her to the chair. “But the honors of the first cut ... that belongs to family.”

Ravi turned and crooked his finger at Jamal, who was standing near the entrance, clutching his mother’s discarded clothes like a security blanket. “Jamal. Come here.”

Jamal walked forward slowly, his movements stiff, robotic. His face was a mask of conflicting emotions—the flush of shame, the wide-eyed curiosity, and the undeniable, dark excitement that had been building since the beach shack.

“Stand at the foot of the chair,” Ravi ordered.

Jamal obeyed. His eyes were drawn immediately to the apex of his mother’s thighs. It was a view he had never seen, never should have seen. The thick mat of hair was even more pronounced in the harsh salon lighting, a wild, unruly contrast to the sterile white leather of the chair.

Sheila, the stylist, stepped forward with a pair of sharp silver scissors and a towel. She looked at Ravi, then at Jamal, her expression unreadable behind her professional facade. She offered the scissors to the boy.

“Careful with the blades,” she said simply.

Ravi took the scissors from Sheila and pressed the handle into Jamal’s palm, closing the boy’s fingers around the cold metal. “Go on, Jamal. You said it looked primitive. You said it was embarrassing. Fix it.”

“Jamal, no!” Zubeidha’s eyes flew open. She struggled against the chair, her hips bucking, but Ravi’s hand on her shoulder was like a vice. “Beta, look away! Don’t touch me there! This is a sin!”

“It’s a grooming, Aunty,” Shyam chimed in, leaning against a nearby display of nail polishes, grinning widely. “Just a little haircut. Be a good son and help your mother out.”

Jamal’s hand was shaking violently. He looked down at the scissors, glinting under the lights, and then at the dark thicket between his mother’s legs. The scent of her—the mix of sweat, cheap coconut soap, and that distinct, musky arousal—filled his nose. He was lightheaded with it.

“Do it,” Ravi whispered, his voice low and dangerous in Jamal’s ear. “Unless you want us to think you like it hairy and dirty.”

Jamal’s hand hovered over the thick, dark curls, the silver scissors trembling in his grip. The air in the salon felt heavy, charged with the collective breath of every onlooker. He could hear the hum of the air conditioner, the distant sound of a car horn outside, and the ragged, terrified breathing of his mother.

“Do it, Jamal,” Ravi hissed, giving the boy’s shoulder a shove. “Don’t be shy. She asked for your help.”