The sound of Asha’s bangles clicking as she makes chapatti.

Being woken by the sounds of a march outside one Sunday, assuming it was a protest and then finding out it was a real canary in the coalmine indicator of India’s growing middle class — an awareness-raising fun run.

The pigeons constantly woo, woo, woo-ing outside my study window.

A little boy, who must have been about two, sitting on his father’s knees on a motorbike and holding on to the handlebars gingerly as they went over a speed-bump.

Red stains from gouts of betel-spit on the tarmac.


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