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    Suddenly, the doors open. In walks — Rohan’s almost-bride — holding a folder.

    That’s when his phone rang. It was his mother.

    (Life’s paths… sometimes lead all the way from Moscow to Mumbai.)

    That night, over bitter coffee and sweeter vareniki , they talked. She learned about his mother’s tears over the phone, the pressure to marry a girl named back home. He learned about her father’s drinking, her dying mother’s wish for her to marry Dimitri — a wealthy, cruel oligarch who funded the ballet company.

    “I’m not leaving,” he said, breath fogging the air. “We fight. Together.”

    “Beta,” she said softly, “I saw your photos online. The Russian girl… you look at her the way your father once looked at me. Come home if you must. But don’t marry Anjali. Marry your truth.”