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Prahlad laughed, a dry, crackling sound. "Day? There is no day. There is only moksha and roti . I wake at 4 AM. I bathe the monkey—Gopal, I call him. I offer a channa to the Ganga. Then I walk. I walk until my feet bleed because the seths (rich men) have taken all the good corners. My lifestyle? It is a 200-rupee room, a leaking roof, and the constant fear that Gopal will bite a foreigner and the police will take him away."

That night, Ananya sat on her hotel rooftop, editing the raw footage. She scrapped the background score of sitar music. Instead, she used the ambient sound: the temple bells, the monkey’s chatter, Kavya’s arguing voice, and Prahlad’s weary laugh. She posted a single frame on Instagram with a caption that broke her usual formula: Prahlad laughed, a dry, crackling sound

Ananya sighed, adjusting her handloom cotton blouse. She’d spent a fortune on this blouse. Just then, a wiry old man with a saffron tilak on his forehead and eyes the colour of monsoon clouds shuffled onto her camera frame. He was holding a brass pot and a small, chattering monkey on a leash. There is only moksha and roti