She stands at the threshold of her bamboo hut, moments before stepping in after a round of chores in the courtyard. Something has caused her to pause, as she looks out into the distance with those intense, kohl-rimmed eyes. Perhaps she is waiting to watch her makeshift fields crop before her eyes (makeshift, because jhuming or slash-and-burn cultivation is how Banjaras subsist), a surreal prospect; or her husband is working on the cultivated patch, and she is trying to gauge from his body language whether he is returning to her any time soon. How realistic is the stance of her fingers - especially as she grips the shoot next to her - and the fold of the loosely knotted ghagra against the raised thigh, with its exposed sweep of skin.
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