Rajeev sat at the six-drawer wooden desk that he had bought for twenty dollars at a thrift store when he’d moved to California some three decades ago. It was made of oak and at one time had been a sturdy piece of furniture, probably purchased for some fashionable den or office space in someone’s home or workplace. Now it sat on a threadbare Kashmiri silk rug with one of its legs propped up on two old record album covers of Muhammad Rafi—considered one of the greatest Indian film playback singers—that had once belonged to his father.
He took a big sip from the steaming cup of masala chai that his wife had brewed for him and prepared to go into battle.
