Rishiraj Dubey 1 It began on a train. The Mumbai local was packed, as always—bodies pressed close, the smell of iron and monsoon sweat thick in the air. Somewhere, a vendor shouted about samosas. A mother hushed her crying child. I had wedged myself into a corner seat near the window, one earbud in, the other dangling, as the city buzzed around me, uncaring and loud. And then, at Dadar, she boarded. White kurta, blue scarf, a jhola bag slung over one shoulder. Her hair was still damp from a rushed morning bath. She moved through the crowd like someone…
