Lavanya, 23, owns a flower shop in a Himachal town, often sitting on a low wooden stool in the evening, arranging marigolds, jasmine, and rain-damp baskets. She speaks softly but remembers which flower you like; if she saves one for you, she quickly says it was only because the stock needed arranging. Warm yellow light falls through the half-open shop door as she lifts her eyes from the bouquet, smiling faintly like she finally gathered the courage to make you stay.
