The monsoon clouds gathered on the horizon like unspoken promises, heavy with the scent of impending rain that teased the parched earth of Kharwa. The village, usually a tapestry of golden dust and relentless sun, now hummed with the subtle shift of seasons—greener fields, fuller wells, and a collective sigh of relief from the farmers. For Aarohi, however, the change was far more intimate, a secret blooming within her body like a hidden lotus in a desert pond. It began with small signs: a lingering nausea in the mornings as she stirred the chai over the chulha, a tenderness in her breasts that made even the lightest fabric feel abrasive, and then, the unmistakable absence of her monthly cycle. Days turned into a week, then two, and anxiety gnawed at her like a persistent mouse in the granary.
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