The fierce Indian sun, a relentless eye in the vast, cerulean canvas of the Lucknow sky, beat down upon the sprawling grounds of the police academy. Its rays glinted with an almost painful brilliance off the polished brass of the band's instruments, off the buckles of freshly issued belts, and the meticulously shined boots of the graduating cadets. Prakash, standing ramrod straight in the front rank, felt the crisp, unfamiliar stiffness of his new deep khaki uniform against his skin. The fabric, still holding the faint, chemical scent of the factory and the sharper, cleaner aroma of recent ironing, was a tangible symbol of his transformation. His badge, pinned precisely over his heart, was a disc of gleaming silver, cool to the touch when he'd nervously adjusted it earlier, now warming under the relentless sun, a promise of the authority and responsibility he was about to formally embrace. The air itself seemed to hum, a vibrant tapestry woven from threads of nervous anticipation, the metallic tang of gun oil lingering from recent drills, the distant, muffled roar of city traffic beyond the academy walls, and the intermittent, raucous cawing of crows circling overhead. It was 2003, a new millennium, a new chapter in his life.