Maya Dutta Part 1 Anaya had always believed that cities carried memories in their air. Kolkata was no different—every tram line, every peeling paint on a crumbling colonial façade, every smell of frying telebhaja in the late afternoon seemed to hold the invisible fingerprints of those who once walked there. That afternoon in early July, when the monsoon clouds pressed heavily over the city, she stood at the narrow balcony of her rented apartment on Southern Avenue, watching the first drops hit the asphalt. The rain came with its own music, a hurried staccato against tin roofs, a deeper resonance…
