Anjali stood knee-deep in the cool river, her hands moving with practiced precision as she gently applied a poultice to the arm of an elderly woman. The day had been long, but the villagers, one by one, came to her for healing. Her grandmother, ever the matriarch of their small village, watched from a wooden chair near the riverbank, her silver hair glistening like moonlight. Anjali's hands were steady, her heart focused, but her mind lingered on the faint yearning that seemed to grow with every passing year. She was 29 now, and the weight of responsibility pressed upon her like the thick fog that rolled in from the hills. Her grandmother had taught her the ways of the healer, the sacred herbs, the words of comfort, and the silent prayers that eased pain. But Anjali could not shake the feeling that her purpose was yet to be fully revealed. Was she destined for more than this quiet life of tending wounds?
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