Amara D’Souza The first real rain of the season unfurls like a forgotten banner over the city—trams sighing on wet rails, buses coughing mist, chai kettles whistling like small lighthouses—and I walk through it with a borrowed umbrella whose stubborn hinge clicks like a throat clearing before a confession, pale dots on the fabric sparking into constellations if I tilt it just so, and there he is again at the corner by the bookstall that always smells of glue and paper, the same man I have noticed three days running: once at the Park Circus stop where everyone stands in…