Chapter 5

The transition from the cool, air-conditioned sterility of the salon to the blaring, humid reality of Goa’s afternoon felt like stepping into a furnace. The sunlight was physical, a heavy weight that pressed down on Zubeidha’s exposed shoulders, instantly baking her skin.

She stood on the pavement for a moment, paralyzed. The sidewalk felt gritty under her bare feet—she hadn’t even been allowed to put her sandals back on. For five years, her body had been a fortress of modesty, swathed in loose salwars and heavy dupattas. Now, she was reduced to three triangles of red fabric that offered less coverage than a handkerchief.

“Move it, Zubeidha,” Ravi called out from down the street. “The tide won’t wait.”

Taking a deep, shuddering breath that barely expanded her ribcage for fear of popping out of the top, she took her first step.

The sensation was overwhelming. Without the protective barrier of hair or underwear, the air moved freely against her sex. It felt illicit, a constant, ticklish reminder of her exposure. Every step sent a jarring vibration through her pelvis. The bikini bottoms were cut high, exposing the entire lower curve of her buttocks, and the thong strap sawed mercilessly between her cheeks. With the friction of her walking, the coarse fabric rubbed directly against the hypersensitive, freshly shaved skin of her labia. It was an abrasive, chafing sensation that teetered on the razor’s edge between pain and a terrifying, frictional heat.

She walked with a stiff, awkward gait, her knees pressed together in a futile attempt to hide her intimacy. Her eyes were fixed on the ground, terrified to make eye contact with the world she was being paraded through.

Behind her, Jamal walked a few paces, his eyes glued to his mother. He had never seen her like this—never seen any woman like this in real life. The bright red of the bikini was neon against her deep brown skin. From the back, the view was devastating. Her buttocks, large and soft, jiggled with every step, the flesh rippling like water. The thin red string disappeared entirely into the dark cleft, emphasizing the sheer size and roundness of her rear.

As they reached the entrance of the beach lane, the crowd thickened. This was the commercial heart of Calangute, a chaotic mix of foreign backpackers in various states of undress, local vendors selling trinkets, and Indian tourists on holiday.

Usually, the sight of a conservatively dressed Muslim woman in a burqa or salwar kameez would draw curious glances. Today, the sight of Zubeidha brought foot traffic to a standstill.

A group of elderly Russian women, walking topless toward the shore, stopped to stare. Even they, seemingly inured to nudity, looked baffled by the spectacle of this Indian woman—clearly a mother, clearly conservative by her demeanor—trussed up like a piece of erotic meat.

“Hey, baby!” shouted a British tourist, his skin lobster-red from sunburn. He held a beer can in one hand, his eyes raking over her heavy chest. “Nice tits! Shake ‘em for us!”

Zubeidha flinched as if she’d been slapped. She wrapped her arms across her chest, trying to hide the straining cleavage that spilled over the tiny red triangles.

“Arms down, Mom,” Jamal heard himself whisper, the words slipping out before he could stop them. He felt a dark, twisted thrill at the command. He was ashamed of himself, even as his erection strained painfully against his denim shorts. He wanted her to cover up, to protect her, but a primal part of him reveled in the fact that she couldn’t. That every man on the beach was seeing what was his.

Zubeidha heard her son’s voice and dropped her arms instantly, the habit of obedience overriding her shame. Her breasts bounced freely with the motion, the heavy, soft flesh slapping slightly against her chest. The bikini top provided no support; it was merely decorative. Her dark nipples, clearly visible through the thin fabric, hardened further in the breeze, poking against the red Lycra.

A group of young Indian guys on motorcycles slowed down as they passed, circling the little procession. They whistled and catcalled, their eyes wide with lascivious disbelief.

“Arre wah! Look at that figure!” “Item number hai kya?” (Is she an item girl?) “Hey, auntie! Where is your husband? Let us take care of you!”

The filth of their words hit Zubeidha like acid. Auntie. The word stung more than the sun. She was a mother. She was a respectable woman. But walking next to these teenage boys in a thong bikini, she looked exactly like the item girls she scorned on late-night TV. She felt the hot flush of humiliation creep down her neck and across her chest, adding to the heat of the sun.

Ravi, leading the way, slowed his pace to let the bikers get a better look. He grinned at them, gesturing to Zubeidha like a tour guide showing off a monument. “Tourist attraction, boys! Fresh from Bombay!”

The bikers laughed revved their engines, and sped off, leaving Zubeidha trembling in their exhaust fumes.

“Just a little further,” Shyam said, skipping beside her. He was enjoying her distress immensely. “Aunty, look at that shopkeeper. He is looking at your choot (cunt). He knows you have no hair.” The transition from the hot, gritty pavement to the cool, powdery sand of Calangute Beach offered no relief to Zubeidha. The sand was hot enough to burn the soles of her feet, forcing her to walk with a prancing, high-stepped gait that made her buttocks clench and bounce obscenely. The red thong rode deeper with every stride, the thin string abraded against her tender, shaved anus, a constant, maddening friction that refused to let her forget her exposure.

They found a spot relatively secluded by a cluster of rocky outcroppings, but “secluded” on a Goa beach was a relative term. Dozens of people lay on towels just twenty yards away—foreigners reading paperbacks, Indian families building sandcastles. The noise of the ocean, the roar of jet skis, and the chatter of the crowd created a wall of sound that Zubeidha prayed would hide her humiliation.

“Drop the towel,” Ravi commanded, kicking the sand.

Zubeidha hesitated, clutching the small beach towel Sheila had given her against her front. It covered her from chest to thigh, the only shield she had left.

“I said, drop it,” Ravi repeated, his voice dropping an octave. “We didn’t pay for all this waxing just so you could hide under a rag.”

With trembling fingers, Zubeidha let the towel fall to the sand. She stood before them, the sun blazing down on her oiled, brown skin. The red bikini was barely there, triangles of fabric struggling to contain her voluptuous curves. The golden oil she had been rubbed down with earlier made her skin gleam, highlighting every dimple and curve.

She instinctively moved to cover her breasts with one arm and her crotch with the other, crossing her legs tightly.

“Hands by your sides. Legs apart,” Ravi ordered. “Shoulders back. Let’s see what we bought.”

Zubeidha squeezed her eyes shut, tears leaking out. She uncrossed her legs, feeling the breeze tickle the oil on her inner thighs. She dropped her arms. Her heavy breasts surged forward, the dark aureoles clearly visible through the wet fabric. The tiny red patch at her crotch clung to her mons, outlining the plump lips beneath.