Riaan D’Souza 1 Rain fell like memory over the shanty roofs of Dharavi, each drop tapping out a rhythm older than the city itself. Inside the dimly lit, one-room Dharavi Chess Club, the walls smelled of damp wood and resignation. But within that space, a quiet miracle unfolded every evening. His name was Arjun Menon—ten years old, barefoot, and already a mystery to the men who came here to play. The board was his world. The black and white squares did not care who you were outside their borders. They did not ask how much money your father made or…