Naseem is putting two hundred and forty figures into six metres of red for a wedding, and she works the reverse as carefully as the front. Then the model comes for the sector, and the good thread starts to run out.

For nineteen years Manzoor has walked the same route: a shutter unlatched for a woman with a hip, a tablet handed to the right brother before ten. Nobody asked him. It is written down nowhere. Then he gets a fever.

The notice cuts Fatima’s sugar by nine per cent and says No action required. She raises her chai by two rupees and knows, before the chalk is dry, which four regulars will now come every other morning.

The profile that de-listed Manoj did not count his forty-one runs. It took biomechanics. Twelve years later, every Sunday, his body still plays three overs of correct cricket for sensors that are no longer there.