“Are you happy?” he asked.

They walked to the local gurudwara (Sikh temple). Inside, the golden light was cool. Volunteers, or sevadars , were serving a free meal called langar —a simple meal of lentils and flatbread—to anyone who walked in, regardless of caste, creed, or wealth. Arjun sat cross-legged on the floor, ate with his hands, and listened to the shabad (hymns). A businessman in a suit sat next to a rickshaw puller. They ate from the same plate, drank from the same cup.

He walked inside, where his mother was packing leftover kheer (rice pudding) into a steel dabba for the morning. She looked up.

The first thing Arjun noticed was the smell. It wasn’t just one smell, but a thousand of them fighting for space. The sharp tang of diesel from an auto-rickshaw, the sweet, heavy cloud of jasmine from a flower vendor’s stall, the earthy sizzle of a chai wallah’s kettle, and the distant, sacred whisper of sandalwood and camphor from the temple by the square.