The sun hung heavy over the dusty grounds of the ancient temple complex on the outskirts of the town. Hundreds of party workers, local men, devotees, and hangers-on had gathered under the fluttering saffron banners and the sharp scent of incense mixed with sweat. The fund-raising ceremony for the temple renovation had drawn a thick crowd. Loudspeakers blared bhajans. Plastic chairs sat in uneven rows. A raised wooden platform stood at the center, draped in red cloth, with a large collection box placed in front of it like an altar.

Aradhna had been brought there by the organising ministers themselves. She was the young widow of a mid-level party functionary who had died two years earlier. The ministers had told her it was an honour. They said her presence would inspire the workers. They said the goddess herself would bless the funds through her. She had worn her best silk saree, deep maroon with a gold border, her hair oiled and pinned, a small bindi on her forehead. She had not expected what was about to happen.