Meera Chandrani Part 1 — The Envelope The envelope was the colour of old bones—thin, brittle, and unreasonably light. It was waiting on my desk when I returned from a morning beat at the magistrate’s court, wedged under my keyboard as if it had crawled there and died. No sender’s name, no return address, just my own printed neatly in black: ANANYA BASU, CITY CRIME. I rubbed at the fine dust that clung to it and felt a prickle—something metallic shifting inside with the slimmest rattle. “Fans of your work,” said Sayan, the photographer, peering over his camera like an…