Mira Devika The Bride of Power The rain in Delhi had a peculiar scent that evening — part jasmine, part diesel, part something burning somewhere far away. The same scent Meher Kapoor remembered from her childhood, watching her father practice speeches before the mirror, shirt sleeves rolled up, his eyes alight with some unknowable fire. But now, Meher was twenty-four, and her father was a framed memory garlanded with marigolds in their ancestral home. She stood in front of a mirror in the bridal chamber of the Oberoi, a deep red lehenga clinging to her like memory. Bangles jangling, lip…