1942 – The sun rose heavy and red over the plains of northern India, casting a dusty glow across the sleeping village of Bhairavpur. The wind, dry and warm, carried the scent of soil and smoke from cooking fires. The roosters crowed, the cows mooed, and the distant hum of temple bells filled the air. It was another day — or so it seemed.

In the heart of the village, the household of Ganga was alive with the sounds of the morning. The fire in the hearth crackled as her mother, Savitri, worked in the kitchen. Ganga, barely eighteen, moved quickly across the courtyard, the sound of her anklets ringing softly with each step. Her long black hair, still damp from her early morning bath in the nearby river, was loosely tied in a braid that swayed as she moved. Her skin glistened in the soft light of dawn, and her warm brown eyes shone with an inner strength.