The dim light of the old family guest room in our ancestral house in Delhi barely lit up the scene. It was past midnight during a family wedding stay-over. Everyone else was asleep in the crowded house, but I (25) couldn’t sleep. My younger cousin, Aryan — 20 years old, skinny, pale white skin that glowed like milk, cute innocent face with big doe eyes and soft pink lips — was sharing the room with me on the big double bed.

He was lying on his back in just a thin white vest and loose shorts, one leg slightly bent. The AC was on low, but the summer heat still made his smooth skin slightly damp. I had been stealing glances at him for years — that forbidden, taboo attraction to my own blood cousin. Tonight, something snapped.