Manisha Vishwakarma pulled her running shoes tight and glanced at the sky. Early, too early for most to be awake, but she liked it that way—before the world had a chance to start talking, to demand things of her. The cold air bit at her cheeks as she began her jog, feet slapping the ground with a force that almost seemed to challenge the quiet of the street. It wasn’t about speed, not really. It never was. There was no race here. Just movement, just the body, and the sharp clarity of a mind that hadn’t yet been filled with the day’s endless meetings, calls, demands.

The others were behind her, though their voices echoed in the cold air. She didn’t look back. They couldn’t catch her, not today. They never did. Manisha ran because it was one of the few times she didn’t have to think about the weight of the title she wore, the expectations that followed her wherever she went.

She reached the end of the block and stopped, catching her breath. The city was waking up now—cars honking, motors running, the first of the morning vendors setting up shop. She wiped her forehead with the back of her hand. The others were catching up now, their breath steaming in the cold air.

"Couldn’t let you have the whole road to yourself," one of them joked, clearly out of breath.

Manisha polished her glasses with the hem of her shirt before she settled them back on her face. The Bank of India's headquarters were up ahead, waiting for her. But not yet. She still had a little time before she had to begin her workday.

"First the road, then the world," she quipped lightly. "But first, tea."