The dust of the village clung to my skin like a second garment, a fine, ochre powder that coated my ankles and dampened my cotton dupatta. I walked toward the haveli, the massive stone structure that loomed over the village like a sleeping beast.

It was the seat of power, the home of Raman, the man who decided whose crops were watered and whose debts were forgiven. At thirty, he possessed a gravity that pulled everyone toward him, an orbit of authority and quiet menace that left me breathless every time our eyes met in the marketplace.