Sneha shifted uncomfortably on the hard wooden bench in the waiting area of Dr. Banerjee’s clinic. The place smelled of antiseptic mixed with the faint mustiness of old paper files stacked high on shelves along the walls. It was a small, private clinic on the quieter edge of the city, the kind that stayed open late and charged less than the big hospitals. She had been coming here for three weeks now because of the stubborn ache in her lower stomach that refused to go away. The pain came and went, sometimes sharp, sometimes a dull throb that made her press her hand against her belly and breathe through it.

Dr. Banerjee was sixty-seven, grey-haired, thin but still steady on his feet. His eyes were small and sharp behind thick-rimmed glasses. He spoke softly, with the calm authority of a man who had spent decades telling people what was wrong with their bodies. Sneha trusted that voice. She was twenty-four, newly married, living in a one-room flat with her husband who worked long shifts at a factory. She had no one else to talk to about the pain, and the doctor’s gentle manner made her feel safe.