“I was an early bloomer, fitting into training bras when I was 11. As a child, one afternoon, I was cycling around a playground, when a rickshaw-wallah started following me. I peddled faster and hit a rock, and as I fell, the handlebars of my cycle scratched me between my chest.

Only lovers have seen those scars, and in my head, only the guy I ever truly loved ran his fingers over the scar and kissed it gently. I hate the word ‘boobs’, it sounds so childish and I detest the word ‘breasts’, because it makes me think of chicken. I also hate that mine are so large, it is difficult to find good affordable bras, let alone ones with a pretty design that make me feel better about them.

I like wearing my hair open, because it flatters my chest and makes it look a little more attractive. Its a little amusing and endearing how much men like them though – whether to tantalise in sex, or to hold them as we cuddle. I remember coming across a photography article years ago, where the models were ordinary women who posed nude, wearing only their bridal veils.

Someday, I would like to do a black and white self-portrait like that – capturing my chest in a way that I can accept it fully without complaints. Until then, the only validation I seek is from a man who knows how to turn me on, from a future unborn child I want to nurse and from clothing brands who can design deep necks without making me feel awkward.”

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