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Sunil Verma, the patriarch, sat on his worn cane chair on the balcony. At seventy, his spine curved like a question mark, a posture earned from decades of hunching over account books. He watched the neighborhood wake up. In his hand was a cup of chai, the ceramic hot against his palm. He didn’t just drink the tea; he inspected it, swirling the amber liquid, waiting for it to cool to that precise temperature where the ginger hit the back of the throat just right.