"Begum doesn't know," he says softly. "But she would want this."
Makkhan returns home to his tiny kitchen. His wife, , is already churning butter – makkhan . She doesn't ask where he went. Instead, she puts a fresh dollop on his roti.
He takes a bite. Outside, the sun rises over Lucknow.
"Makkhan bhai – tonight, deliver to the red door. Not mine. Police watching. Trust no one."
He cycles further than usual – past the hanuman temple, past the tube well, into the bad part of town where electricity flickers like a dying memory. The red door is half-buried behind wild vines.
"You gave away tonight's profit again," she says. Not a question. A fact.