It was probably a mistake to ask Diya to help me find something to wear to the club. What I really meant when I invited her over was to help me pick out a decent outfit—my wardrobe’s full of either formal wear, traditional clothes, or loose T-shirts and shorts, and none of it is exactly ideal for making an impression on some despicable old guy.

But what she heard was an invitation to bring a suitcase full of flashy dresses and pressure me into wearing them—basically turning me into some kind of showpiece. Now, standing in the middle of the crowded club, Diya was busy scanning the place for Aditya, the club manager, while I kept tugging at my glossy black dress, trying to pull it down to my knees.