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"Sure."

Meena ran her thumb over the laminated ration card—her kudumba card , as she still called it. It had been in her family for thirty years. First her husband’s name, then hers, now just her name and a faded hologram. Every month, that card meant 10 kg of rice, 5 kg of wheat, sugar, and one precious liter of kerosene. It was survival, stitched into the fabric of her identity. tnpds login