The wind blowing through the quiet courtyards of the inner Gurukul carried the bitter scent of crushed neem leaves and drying medicinal herbs. Far from the roaring crowds of the sun-baked arena, the western cloisters were cool, shaded by ancient banyan trees whose sprawling roots gripped the red earth like iron fingers.

Bhadra sat cross-legged on a smooth granite slab beside the medicinal well, a heavy stone mortar between her knees. Her hands moved in a steady, rhythmic rhythm, crushing dried ashwagandha roots into a fine gray powder.