Kalyan Mukherjee One The rain had turned Hatibagan into a mosaic of puddles and reflections. Rickshaws creaked over slick tram tracks, and yellow taxis honked in frustration as they weaved between vegetable carts and slow-moving pedestrians. Amrita Dutta stood before the rusting iron gate of her grandfather’s house, staring up at the dark, crumbling façade as though it might swallow her whole. It had been over a decade since she’d stepped foot in this neighborhood, and yet the smell of damp paper, incense, and frying telebhaja felt too familiar. She entered cautiously, key in hand, pushing open the heavy door…