The sticky Hyderabad evening wrapped around Ravi like a possessive lover as he navigated his battered Bajaj scooter through the narrow lanes of LB Nagar. Horns blared, street vendors shouted about hot chai and mirchi bajji, and the distant call to prayer mingled with the laughter of children playing cricket in the dusty maidan. It was just another Tuesday, but for Ravi, 35, it was the promise of coming home to his world.

Their small independent 2BHK house stood modestly in a middle-class society, its cream walls faded by years of sun and monsoon, blue grills on the windows, and a tiny front courtyard where Priya grew tulsi and a few marigolds. No luxury, no fancy car in the porch—just enough space, enough love, and enough struggle to keep them grounded and grateful.