In the sweltering summer of 1972, the dusty roads of rural Uttar Pradesh wound like forgotten serpents through fields of wilting sugarcane. The air hung heavy with the scent of monsoon promises that never quite arrived, and in a modest mud-brick home on the outskirts of a nameless village, Meera adjusted the heavy red dupatta over her head for the hundredth time. At nineteen, she was the fifth daughter of a widowed potter whose hands, calloused from the wheel, could no longer spin dreams for his girls. With four sisters ahead of her... two already wed to distant farmers, one betrothed to a shopkeeper's son, and the eldest whispering of running away...

Meera's marriage had been a godsend, or so her father called it. A rich family's son, they said. A man of twenty-seven with a sprawling haveli and fields that stretched to the horizon. The dowry was a pittance: a few gold bangles and a promise of silk saris. Her family couldn't afford more; five daughters were a curse in a world that prized sons.