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One night, a letter arrived for Anjali. It smelled faintly of the city—the metallic tang of offices and petrol—and the envelope was sharp with hurried handwriting. She opened it with fingers that trembled like leaves in a gust. Mareed was standing just outside the doorway, drawn by the thin light of the lamp. He watched her silently as she read: it was from her husband. He was asking for a separation. He said their marriage had become a slow forgetting and he did not want to hurt her by staying.

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