At 12:30 AM, the road on the outskirts of Mumbai was empty except for one car, one man, and the kind of silence that only exists in a city after it has finally, briefly, stopped talking.

Amogh Raghuvanshi sat on the bonnet of his car, one leg braced against the bumper, his tie already loosened and his shirt sleeves rolled to the elbow, watching the orange wash of a streetlamp flicker against the asphalt. Thirty-two years old, and there were nights — this one among them — when he felt every single year of it settled into his shoulders like something physical.