Manisha was 19 , a fragile flame flickering in the wind of poverty. Her family lived in a one-room shack with a tin roof that rattled like bones in the monsoon. Her father coughed blood into rags; the doctor demanded five thousand rupees upfront for the next round of injections. Her mother’s hands were cracked from scrubbing marble floors in the city, earning barely enough for rice and dal. Manisha’s younger brother and sister hadn’t tasted milk in months. She had left school at sixteen, her dreams of college crushed under the weight of survival. Every rupee she earned stitching clothes at home vanished into medicines and rent. When whispers reached the village that the local MLA, Rajesh Yadav, could “fix” a government peon’s post for the right price or the right girl .Manisha swallowed her pride and walked the eight kilometers to his office barefoot, her only pair of chappals split at the sole.

She stood before him clutching a folder of photocopied certificates, the pink salwar kameez clinging to her sweat-damp skin. The fan above spun lazily, doing nothing against the heat.