Saanvi had been told by the head priest that the overnight vigil was a sacred duty, a test of her devotion to the goddess. The temple stood isolated on the edge of the village, its stone walls thick and its courtyards empty after sunset. She had arrived at dusk carrying a small bundle of clothes and a brass pot of water. The priest’s disciples—five young men who lived in the temple compound—greeted her with lowered eyes and soft voices. They spoke of purity, of the need to remain awake through the night chanting mantras, of how the ropes they would use were only to keep her from falling asleep and rolling off the stone platform in front of the inner sanctum.

“Yeh sirf aapki raksha ke liye hai,” one of them said, holding up a length of rough jute rope. (This is only for your protection.)