Aastha, dikhao ise. Isse apna hathiyar banao.” I gripped my left breast, my thumb and forefinger circling the base of the areola. With a sharp, rhythmic squeeze, a high-pressure stream of warm, white milk geysered from my nipple. It struck Vardaan squarely in the eye. He gasped, blinking as the liquid coated his lashes.

“Aah! Aastha, ye toh… ye toh garam hai,” he stammered. “Hile mat, Vardaan ji,” I commanded, squeezing again. I directed the spray across his forehead, down the bridge of his nose, and into his thick, dark moustache.