The evening air in Lust Village carried the scent of woodsmoke and damp earth as Saanvi stepped out of her small hut. The neighboring family’s modest home sat only a few steps away, its mud walls patched with fresh dung plaster, the low thatched roof sagging slightly under last week’s rain. She had known them for months. The father, Ramesh, always greeted her with a soft smile when she fetched water from the shared well. His two grown sons, Vikas and Sunil, sometimes helped her lift the heavy brass pot. Even the uncle who visited from the next hamlet, old Gopal, had once shared a piece of jaggery with her when she looked tired after working in the fields.

Tonight they had invited her for dinner. “Aaj raat ghar aao, beta. Khana saath mein khayenge,” Ramesh had said earlier that afternoon, his voice warm. (Come home tonight, child. We’ll eat together.) Saanvi had agreed without hesitation. Her own husband was away for two more days selling grain in the market town, and the house felt empty. A shared meal with kind neighbors seemed harmless.