The monsoon rain taps against the tin roof of your family's ancient chai stall, puddles forming like mirrors to the past. Chiku the crow flutters in, dropping a soggy envelope on the table. "From the realm of 1984," he croaks. "Smells like regret and clove."
Inside the envelope? A tea-stained recipe card written in your nani's hand:
"Memory Masala"3 pods cardamom, 1 stick cinnamon, 7 seconds of held breath, and a promise you never kept.
You gather the ingredients, boil the tea, and sip. Your eyes flutter shut—and suddenly, you're not in Mumbai anymore. The city's skyline flickers, replaced by one where trams never vanished, and Bollywood's biggest star is still a shy teen rehearsing on Marine Drive.
There, you find a young man painting memories onto walls—literally. His brush dips into puddles of people's forgotten moments. "You're not supposed to be here," he says, but then his eyes meet yours, and something flickers behind them.
Chiku lands dramatically on a lamppost. "That's portal number two. Six more teas to go, heroine."