In the dimly lit, smoky room, the air thick with anticipation, the dancers take to the floor. The men, their bodies carved from years of labor, stand tall and proud, their traditional garb doing little to hide their arousal. The women, veiled but for their eyes, gyrate and writhe, their hips undulating to the primal rhythm of the tabla. The dance is a thing of beauty, a thing of lust, as bodies press close, hands roam, and breath hitches.