The sun had already begun to soften, casting warm shadows across the tiny balcony of Aarohi’s flat in Bhubaneswar. She stood in front of her mirror for the third time in ten minutes, nervously tucking a strand of hair behind her ear. Her navy-blue cotton kurti wasn’t new, but it was neat, simple, and smelled like home. It was also the best she had.

Her palms were sweating.