"It was raining so hard the streets looked like rivers," Dada recounted, looking out into the empty courtyard as if the rain were falling right then. "I was sheltering under the awning of a closed bookstore. Then, she walked past."

Every evening as the sun dipped below the horizon, painting the sky in shades of bruised purple and liquid gold, the ritual began. Dada would sit on one side of the wide swing, his eyes cloudy with age but bright with memories. Ananya, his poti (granddaughter), would curl up on the other side, a notebook in hand.