The large wooden communal hall stood at the heart of the village, its thick beams blackened by years of smoke from the central hearth. Oil lamps flickered along the walls, casting long shadows across the packed dirt floor. Dozens of villagers filled the space for the weekly gathering—men seated on low stools and charpoys, women clustered near the back, children darting between legs until the older ones shooed them outside. The air smelled of sweat, tobacco, and the faint sweetness of fermented rice beer that several men passed around in clay cups.

Raghav, the headman, sat in the place of honor near the front, a heavy man with a thick mustache and a voice that carried without effort. He had called the gathering to settle a dispute over irrigation rights, but the talk had dragged on, and the mood had turned restless. Men muttered among themselves. Someone laughed too loudly. Raghav’s eyes moved across the room until they settled on Saanvi, who had come only to bring water for her father’s house and had stayed too long near the doorway, listening.