The heart of Vanshgaon, its dusty village square beneath the ancient banyan tree, was transformed. Garlands of marigold and jasmine hung from every eave, their perfume battling the earthy scent of trampled soil and packed bodies. The entire village had gathered, a living tapestry of expectant faces—from wizened elders to wide-eyed children held on hips. At the center, a low wooden platform had been erected, covered in white cloth and strewn with rose petals.

A hush fell, broken only by the drone of bees in the flowering neem trees. Then, the slow, deliberate beat of a single **dhol** began, a heartbeat for the rite about to unfold.