Sneha Chanda 1 Every evening around six-thirty, the city of Bangalore sighed under its own weight—horns honked like dissonant jazz, autos swerved with divine confidence, and a dusty orange sun drooped behind the concrete skyline. Priti, on her midnight-blue scooter, found herself once again halted at the same red light near Indiranagar, officially labelled Signal No. 47. It was a notorious pause point, where the signal stubbornly lingered for a full hundred and twenty seconds, enough for people to check their phones, vendors to sell corn-on-the-cob, and traffic to swell into a stubborn sea. For Priti, it had become a…