BY DOMINIC WIGHTMAN The first herald of oblivion was not a sound, but a scent. It crept into the sanctum of Chandrakant Deshmukh’s slumber like the ghost of a forgotten epoch, a primordial musk of sun-scorched earth and overripe fruit, an olfactory violation of his whitewashed walls and the sterile geometry of his meticulously ordered existence. He surfaced from the depths of an afternoon nap … Continue reading The Unsealed Window