The air in the hut was thick with the scent of crushed neem leaves and sandalwood incense. Urvashi knelt on the woven mat, her head bowed, as the village elder women moved around her with a quiet, solemn purpose. Their hands, calloused from years of work, were surprisingly gentle as they palpated her lower belly, pressed against the soft flesh of her breasts, and examined the subtle changes in her skin.

“It has been two cycles,” whispered Meera, the eldest, her voice like dry leaves. “The moon-blood has not come.”