At four in the morning, the Raichand estate did not sleep — it listened.

Beyond the towering wrought-iron gates, Kolkata hummed faintly in the distance, its restless pulse softened by predawn mist, the tramlines sighing under early wheels, the river carrying a damp whisper through the half-awake city. But inside the estate walls there existed a different rhythm altogether — one older than traffic, older than political slogans, older even than ambition.