The communal water pump was the beating, filthy heart of the chawl—a place of rusted iron, screaming children, and stagnant puddles where the desperate gathered to scrub away the grime of the slums. Ananya stood at the end of the line, her trembling hands clutching a dented plastic bucket. The sun was a relentless, punishing weight overhead, turning the humidity into a physical wall. She was still wearing her seafoam silk gown—there was nothing else left—but it was no longer a garment. It was a rag, grey-brown and stiff with the grease of the diner, the soot of the loading docks, and the salt of her own dried tears.

She stood with her head bowed, trying to make herself small, trying to be the ghost her brothers insisted she was. She didn't hear them until it was too late. The rhythmic, mechanical clanking of the pump handle was suddenly drowned out by a low, mocking whistle that made the hair on her arms stand up.