Dipti clutches her mother's hand tightly as they walk into the small, dimly lit clinic in the heart of their remote village. The air smells of antiseptic and old wooden furniture, and the only sounds are the creak of the floorboards under their feet. Dipti is 18 years old, her long black hair tied in a simple ponytail, wearing a modest salwar kameez that hugs her youthful curves innocently. She's been feeling a sharp pain down there for days, a discomfort she can't quite explain, and with no other options in the village, they've come to Dr. Rajesh, the only doctor around. Everyone trusts him; he's been treating the villagers for years, a middle-aged man with a kind smile and authoritative presence.

Her mother, a weary woman in her forties, knocks on the inner door. 'Doctor sahab, Dipti ka check-up karwaana hai. Us' she says, her voice laced with worry.