Meera adjusted her cotton nightie, the one with the small tear near the sleeve she kept meaning to fix. Her husband, Rajesh, was on another "business trip" to Surat. This was the third one this month. He’d left her a wad of cash, a list of chores, and a stern reminder: “Don’t just sit around. And don’t call me unless the building is on fire.”
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The clock on the microwave read 11:47 PM. The apartment in Andheri East was a quiet cage of beige walls and the low hum of the refrigerator. Meera adjusted her cotton nightie, the one with