The evening air in the small apartment hung heavy with the scent of cumin, turmeric, and fresh coriander. Maya had spent the last three hours in the kitchen, carefully preparing a full spread—aloo gobi, dal tadka, soft rotis, and a simple cucumber raita—because Ramesh had told her his boss, Mr. Sharma, was coming for dinner. It was important. Ramesh’s job at the factory was the only thing keeping the rent paid and the lights on. Mr. Sharma had been making quiet comments for weeks about “performance reviews” and “necessary adjustments.” Tonight was supposed to smooth things over.

Ramesh sat stiffly at the small dining table, collar slightly damp with nervous sweat. Mr. Sharma, a heavy-set man in his late forties with thick fingers and a permanent half-smile, occupied the chair opposite him. He had already finished two glasses of the cheap whiskey Ramesh had bought specially for the occasion.