The subjects of Debmalya Ray Choudhuri are encountered by a viewer who appears washed up in a new city. They play ironically with social codes and are equal parts desiring and reticent, longing and withdrawn. Flirtation and its denial are the dominant mood of these photographs: Touch me not, they seem to say to us. Isn’t this the look that Choudhuri’s lying model gives? The head rests on sheets ruffled into folds by the erotic grip of a hand; the arms flex just slightly. The presence of another person at the scene is suggested. The image invites you to imagine their position and to mentally assume it. Look again and you see that the model’s eyes are open, which is not unexpected, given the circumstances. But in the gaze, there is something strange: not rapt sexual pleasure, but circumspection, even hostility, directed outwards. Suddenly you feel yourself pulled from the position of the participant – thrown off the model’s back, so to speak – and out of the tableau entirely. It’s a look that says, Desire is here, and you have no part of it.