Anjali hesitated. It seemed… unscientific. The brass hadn't been polished. The water was room temperature. But she walked over, cupped her palm, and drank.

Her phone buzzed again. She turned it over, face down.

The train journey was a decompression chamber. Out of the sanitized AC coach, into the platform’s glorious chaos: a porter balancing a mattress on his head, a sadhu in saffron arguing with a tea seller, the smell of samosas and diesel. She felt the city-slicker mask of efficiency begin to crack.