It’s 1990, and the monsoon has turned Mumbai’s streets into rivers of sludge. I’m Prasad, nine years old, and I’ve just sold a Rakhi for fifty rupees. My father, Raman, told me to get rid of it—‘No use crying over threads,’ he said. But I didn’t just sell it. I told the shopkeeper it was for his sister, dying in hospital. He paid extra, eyes wet. With the money, I bought rotis, samosas, and slipped two chocolates into my pocket. Dad laughed, ruffled my hair—‘My smart boy!’—but I saw the letter from Aunt Gayatri under his bed. It said she was sick. It said she missed him. And it said she tied that Rakhi with her own hands.\n\nNow, I sit on the wet rooftop, licking melted chocolate, wondering if I’m the hero or the villain. The rain won’t stop. Neither will the guilt.\n\nDo I confront my father? Do I write to my aunt? Or do I keep playing the game—because in this city, only the clever survive?