Aradhya had waited three weeks for the files to move. Three weeks of polite reminders, of sitting in outer offices while junior clerks pretended the papers had been misplaced, of watching her constituency projects—the new primary health centre, the road link to the drought-hit villages, the scholarships for girls from the most backward blocks—stay stuck in the slow machinery of the secretariat. Everyone knew the real blockage sat two floors above in the office of the Cabinet Secretary. Rakesh Malhotra. The man who could clear or bury anything with a single signature.

She arrived after hours on a Thursday, just as the last peon was locking the outer doors. The corridors were half-dark, the usual bustle gone. Her heels clicked too loudly on the marble. She had worn the cream silk saree that clung a little too closely at the hips, the blouse cut lower than she normally allowed herself in this building. Makeup carefully done, hair pinned but not too tightly. She knew exactly what she was doing. Or at least she thought she did.