The early morning sun bathed the village in a golden haze, but for Chhavi Mittal, the day always began in shadows. The small, dimly lit room she called home was not hers by choice. It belonged to her uncle and aunt, who had reluctantly taken her in after her parents’ tragic death.

Chhavi was no stranger to hard work. Her hands, calloused from years of grinding wheat and drawing water from the well, told a story of resilience. Yet, nothing she did ever seemed enough for her uncle and aunt. To them, she was a burden, a reminder of expenses they didn’t want to bear.