Sonalika Sharma 1 The room was dim except for the soft golden glow of a brass lamp near the window, its flickering flame casting wavering shadows across the cream-colored walls of the apartment. The sitar rested across Ananya’s lap like an extension of her own body, its polished surface gleaming faintly as her fingers moved across the strings with precise familiarity. Outside, the chaotic hum of Delhi—the distant horns, the whir of rickshaws, the laughter of neighbors—seemed muffled inside this cocoon of practice. She bent slightly forward, her brow furrowed in concentration, listening not just with her ears but with…