Mornings begin with a constitutional in the vicinity of the sacred peepul. Round and round the track they go in their highlighted Adidas, in twos and sometimes threes, talking not of Michelangelo but the stock market, wicked sisters-in-law and the price of onions.
The streets are being swept by Har Chandi and her team.
Her name means God’s Moon, but she has become old in just the year since I last saw her.
Dogs have their maids who take them for a walk.
Every single car has its own dedicated driver who gives it a shampoo and polish each morning.
The lawn is weeded by the mali.
Meanwhile the children who aren’t at school enjoy the flowers.
Mother watches nearby.
Father is on the scaffolding building another monstrosity. Most houses are being bulldozed to make room for apartment buildings. Each flat sells for £600,000, but there isn’t enough power or water.