Mrs. Meena Fernandes stood in the doorway with a bright plastic bag in one hand and an umbrella dripping onto the already wet doormat. She was in her mid-forties, round-faced, sharp-eyed, the kind of neighbour who noticed when the milk packets disappeared too slowly or when a light stayed on too late. Today she wore a bright yellow nighty under a thin raincoat, her hair pulled back in a hurried bun.

“Arre, Rajesh bhai, I thought you had gone out,” she said, stepping inside without waiting for a full invitation. “The road is flooded near the signal. I brought the modak moulds for Chaturthi. My sister sent extra from her society.” She held up the bag, then her eyes flicked past him into the kitchen. “Priya? You’re up early. Looking a little flushed, beta. Fever again?”