The bus braked with a hiss of air and a cloud of red dust the colour of dried tamarind. Ranjith stepped down, duffel bag heavy on his shoulder, the January heat already pressing against the thin city shirt that clung to his narrow back. Nineteen years old, first-year diploma student in Trichy, he had not breathed this air since Deepavali. The lane smelled exactly the way memory had preserved it: cow-dung smoke curling fro...