Maya Arora The rain had been falling since afternoon, coating the windows of the office with a restless sheen. Ananya sat at her desk staring at the spreadsheet that refused to balance itself, the numbers running like water in her mind, slippery and without form. Outside, the glass tower of Connaught Place glowed with rain-washed neon. She should have been heading home by now—her husband, Arindam, would already be waiting, the television on, dinner reheated by the house-help, a routine that had long solidified into something resembling safety, or perhaps imprisonment. But instead, she lingered, scrolling through meaningless columns, waiting…