They laughed.

“Leave,” she said.

Day three: He asked her to lip-sync a soft Punjabi song. Instead, she grabbed a dhol and sang a Haryanvi jaago —raw, powerful, earth-shaking. The entire village gathered.

“Easy,” he said, adjusting his aviators. “These small-town girls just need a makeover. New clothes, some confidence coaching, and they’ll dance to any tune I play.”

She was fixing a tractor tire with her bare hands, a streak of grease on her cheek, wearing a kurti and salwar that had seen better days. Her eyes, however, could cut glass.