“The storm hit. The rain came down in the Nilgiri way — not gradually but completely, as if someone had turned on a tap the size of the sky. The windows streamed. The sound was enormous — rain on the old tin roof, rain on the stone path, rain on the leaves of the silver oak trees that lined Bedford Circle, the combined, symphonic, this-is-why-you-live-in-the-hills percussion that made conversation impossible for thirty seconds and that Kaveri loved because the rain made the café an island and islands were where stories began.”