The accommodation provided to me was in a hillside and there were only two houses in the hillside, one mine and the other a simple house which belonged to the milkmaid of the village.

Her name was Leela, mid-30s. She had an extremely athletic body and the face of an angel that would make athletes and actresses ashamed. Her husband is a woodcutter who left her for the summer village and will only return in the winter. Only a few remained at the village.

I asked Leela for a bottle of milk. She was happy. Her son was responsible for delivery in the village since I lived above their house. Leela agreed to deliver milk to me personally. Her son used to deliver milk from 5.30 am onwards. Leela delivers my bottle of milk when she sees the light in my kitchen.

I knew her by her body and her scent. Her smell hit hard: sweet, wet milk, dry hay, and the deep, hot musk of her sweat. It was a smell of pure, raw sex. She had the stillness and strength of the mountain itself.

Her hands were rough, made for work, yet they handled the heavy brass milk pails with a maddening, quiet grace. Her husband was a shadow, gone to the forest for weeks—a fact that became a loud, constant invitation.

She was built for strong use. Her shoulders were wide, her hips heavy and stable under the thin, faded cloth of her sari. That cloth fought to hide the generous, low curve of her breasts. They were full, the shape of the harvest.