Saanvi A. Menon The rain started sometime after midnight, stealthy at first, tapping like fingers on the tin awning outside Mira’s fourth-floor window. She didn’t get up to look. Mumbai rain, especially in late June, had a way of arriving without ceremony but leaving a trail. The fan above her bed slowed, hiccuped, and then stopped altogether. Silence followed, thick as wet wool. The power was out. Again. She lay still, waiting for the noise to return — a whirr, a click, the hallway inverter kicking in — but the darkness held. Beyond her shuttered window, thunder cracked the sky…
