The village of Basanti lay under a thick, humid sky the night of the big feast. Torches burned along the edges of the open ground, casting long shadows across the packed earth. Tables made of rough wooden planks had been set in a wide circle. Clay pots of rice, dal, sabzi, and roasted meat steamed in the middle. The men had eaten heavily. The women had served and then sat a little apart, some watching, some looking at their hands.

Saanvi had been told to serve barefoot. Her only clothing was a thin, faded cotton blouse that barely reached her midriff and a short cloth tied low around her hips, the kind of garment the older women said was “proper for serving when the men were in their cups.” The cloth kept slipping. Every time she bent to ladle food, the men stared. Some reached. She stepped back when she could.