Sanjana Iyer 1 The rain had settled into a soft, rhythmic patter against the windowpanes of Vidya Ranganathan’s rented flat in Bandra when the doorbell rang—a sound far too sudden for a Sunday morning steeped in the smell of filter coffee and undone to-do lists. She opened the door to find no one, only a brown-paper-wrapped parcel resting on the doormat, slightly damp, addressed in old-fashioned cursive to “Vidya Ranganathan, Editor (Retired), Mumbai.” No sender, no postage. Inside was a manuscript—pages browned and curling at the edges, parts of it scorched as if rescued from a fire. The title etched…
