The Wistful Atlas
Bangalore in the early two thousand and three was a city of leased lives, where bamboo hills swallowed the sound of traffic and the air hung heavy with the promise of a boom that had not yet arrived. Nirmala Verma, forty-two, stood in the rain-slicked courtyard of her ancestral home, clutching a ledger that proved her late father’s estate was insolvent, her knuckles white against the damp...
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