The afternoon sun hung heavy over the dusty village of Rampur Kalan, baking the open chaupal into a stage of hard-packed earth and low mud walls. Aradhna had arrived that morning in a simple cotton saree of pale blue, her hair tied back, a folder of voter lists under her arm. She had come alone, the party worker assigned to this block, expecting the usual negotiations over tea and promises of development schemes. Instead the sarpanch, a thick-set man named Bhagat Singh with a white moustache and shrewd eyes, had gathered the senior panchayat members under the neem tree. They sat on charpais and low stools, watching her with the patience of men who already knew the price of their support.

“Beti,” Bhagat Singh said, his voice carrying across the dozen or so men who had drifted closer, “we have heard your speeches. Nice words about roads and schools. But words do not fill stomachs, and they do not bring votes. You want our people to stand in line for your party? Then you must honour us first. Here. In front of everyone. The village must see that you respect the panchayat.”