Ayan Mehta 1 The rains had not stopped for three days, and in the heart of Kochi’s old port area, the swollen waters had turned every lane into a stream. On the fourth morning, as the sky remained heavy with dark monsoon clouds, police were called to a derelict warehouse by the shore. Inside, half-submerged in knee-deep water, floated the body of a middle-aged man. His face was bloated, his shirt clung to his chest, and his trousers bore muddy stains. A faint smell of oil and damp wood filled the air, mixing with the pungent odour of decay beginning…
