But the car outside his window—a rusty, forgotten Maruti 800 that had been parked on his street for years—flipped its headlights on. Twice. A slow blink. Like a greeting.

He had saved for three weeks. No chips. No cold drinks. Just three crisp twenty-rupee notes folded into his pocket. He pulled them out, smoothed them on his knee, and walked to the local mobile shop—a dusty counter under a banyan tree, run by a man named Bhai, who smelled of cigarettes and secrets.

“Bhai. Recharge for ringtone.”