Chanchal moved like a question mark across the rain-slick alley, laughter tucked into the upturn of her mouth. Neon from a roadside vendor painted her shadow electric blue; the sari she favored clung and snapped with each quick step. People called her a mystery and a melody: chanchal — spirited; haseena — beautiful. She carried the calendar year in her pocket like a promise and the city’s rumor in her hair.