The cheap hotel on the outer ring road of Jaipur had flickering neon sign, peeling paint, and a receptionist who didn’t look twice at Priya’s bare tits under her hastily pulled-on white crop top. We paid cash for a room on the ground floor—no ID, no questions. The key was cold metal in my palm.

Inside, the room smelled like old cigarette smoke and cheap air freshener. One double bed with thin sheets, a small TV bolted to the wall, dim yellow bulb overhead. The bathroom door stood open; I could see cracked tiles and a rusty showerhead.