Shreya Mukherjee The air in the Bangalore metro smelt faintly of wet concrete and deodorant. Anaya Sen adjusted her tote bag, balancing herself as the train jerked forward. Her headphones were in, but the music was off. She wasn’t in the mood for playlists. Not this morning. Outside, the city passed by in a blur of glass facades, auto-rickshaws, and trees trying their best to stay green. Inside, her inbox buzzed with reminders of the town hall meeting she had helped organize — the one everyone was quietly dreading. After the leak last week, things had been spiraling. Whispers. Slack…