Some stories arrive as words. Others arrive as numbers in a spreadsheet - quiet, waiting, until you learn how to hear their voices. The first time I walked through the gates of the District Collectorate of Kozhikode, the monsoon air was thick with the scent of wet earth. Rain clung to the mango trees outside, and the corridors echoed with the shuffle of files and the quiet urgency of government work. I thought I was stepping into a world of numbers, forms, and neatly typed reports. I didn’t...