The night air in the village of Rampura hung thick with the scent of burning oil lamps, jasmine garlands, and the distant smoke of cooking fires. Torches lined the open courtyard near the old banyan tree, casting flickering golden light over the packed earth where the annual harvest dance was underway. Drums thudded in a steady, hypnotic rhythm—dholak and madal beating like a heartbeat—while the shehnai wailed high and sharp. Villagers crowded around in a loose circle: men with rough hands and hungry eyes, women in bright lehengas whispering and laughing, children darting between legs until their mothers pulled them back.

In the center, Sanya danced.