That evening, the rains came. Not the polite drizzle of the West, but the baraat of monsoons—a crashing, celebratory assault of water that turned Mumbai’s streets into rivers. Mira’s local train was delayed. Autos refused to ply. She stood under a shop awning, soaked to the bone, watching a boy selling bhutta (roasted corn) by a gutter. He smiled, showing blackened teeth, and offered her a piece with a squeeze of lemon and a pinch of red chili powder.