Radha’s slender fingers trembled as she adjusted the pallu of her simple cotton saree, trying desperately to hide the damp patches blooming across her blouse. The humid evening air in the sarpanch’s sprawling haveli felt heavier than usual. At 21, she was just another poor village girl from the lower caste, orphaned young and scraping by as the live-in servant for the most powerful man in the village—Sarpanch Vijay Singh. He ruled with an iron fist, his word law, his influence stretching from the panchayat meetings to the grain silos that fed the entire village.

“Radha! Kahan hai tu?” (Radha! Where are you?) Vijay’s deep, commanding voice echoed from the courtyard. She froze, heart pounding. The milk was leaking again. It had started two months ago after a secret pregnancy that ended in miscarriage, leaving her breasts swollen, heavy, and constantly aching with unspent milk. She had no husband, no family support—only this job that kept her and her aging aunt from eviction.