I stand in front of the mirror in the dressing room, adjusting the thin choli that barely contains my breasts. The fabric clings so tightly that my nipples press visibly against it, the deep neckline leaving almost nothing to the imagination.

My white skin spills out from the edges, the heavy globes threatening to spill free with every breath. The lehnga sits low on my hips, the dupatta draped carelessly over one shoulder so that anyone walking by gets a clear view of my midriff and the curve of my waist.