Dry Well

Women lower buckets into the dry well on ropes frayed from endless use, only to haul up cascades of fine sand that spills through their fingers. Cracked stone edges the pit, baked hard by relentless sun, while dust coats the women's ragged saris and hollow faces. No water breaks the surface—only barren grit mocks their thirst, capturing the Mayapore villagers' desperation under the curse that stole their life source and children alike.