In the bustling yet quiet Indian household in a suburban Delhi neighborhood, Dadaji sat on the worn-out sofa, his mind a whirlwind of pent-up frustration. At 68, he was a wiry man with a salt-and-pepper beard, his eyes sharp and hungry beneath thick glasses. For two agonizing days, his wife  had locked the front door with an extra chain, determined to curb his notorious habit of sneaking out to brothels or alleys, wasting their modest pension on cheap thrills. 'Tumhari yeh umer nahi hai aise paise barbaad karne ki!' she had scolded him that morning before grabbing her cloth bag and heading to the local market for vegetables and spices. His son and daughter-in-law had left early to visit a sick relative in the next town, leaving the house eerily empty except for his 18-year-old granddaughter, Priya, who had just turned legal a few days ago.