The morning sun hadn't even fully risen over the high outer walls of the Chauhan haveli, but the massive traditional kitchen on the ground floor was already warm. The air smelled thick of roasted cumin, fresh ghee, and boiling milk bubbling over the heavy brass pots on the clay hearth.

Nandini stood in front of the large wooden kneading board, her hands covered in dry flour. Her arms were shaking slightly, not just from the heavy physical labor of kneading dough before dawn, but from the dull, deep ache still throbbing inside her thighs and lower belly. Every time she pressed her palms down into the flour, the friction sent a sharp reminder of the previous night on the bathroom floor.