In the fading evening light, Wamiqa stumbles onto the dusty street, clutching her torn dupatta over her chest. Her swollen eyes flicker with fear as her husband’s mother throws a final insult at her back. A battered suitcase thuds onto the ground beside her, its contents spilling: bright saris, broken dreams—and her torn kurta exposing the ample curves of her breasts. Cheeks burning with shame, she scrambles to cover herself, arms trembling as she presses the fabric close, desperately trying to hide. The door slams. For a moment, Wamiqa stands frozen—humiliated, trembling, cheeks wet with silent tears. She melts into the shadows, avoiding every glance. Her hands shake uncontrollably as she gathers her things, looking utterly lost and exposed.