The Darjeeling mist clung to the hillside like a shy lover, wrapping the tea gardens in a soft, grey Meera Rai stood at the edge of her family's small estate, the dampness seeping through her woolen shawl. In her hand, she held the envelope. It had taken her three drafts, four tear stains, and every ounce of courage she possessed to write it. The paper smelled faintly of jasmine, from the dried flower she had pressed between the pages. Her handwriting, usually neat and disciplined like the botanical sketches she made, trembled on the final line. Come back, or ...Read More

Thebhangrabeat thumped through the floor, through Meera’s bones, a mocking counter-rhythm to the frantic hammering of her heart. Her had narrowed to two points: the empty space by the exit where the silhouette had stood, and the shattered phone in Rohan’s hand. “Meera.” Rohan’s voice cut through the din, sharp with concern. He held the phone gingerly, the cracked screen webbing over the glowing message. “What is this? Who is ‘A’?” The simple question was a lifeline to reality. To this reality—the marigold garlands, the sequined saris, the scent of her wedding feast being prepared. This was real. The ...Read More