India’s light is magical. At daybreak it casts long shadows that flash by the windows of the Shiv Ganga Express as it travels through mile upon mile of farmland. At noon its thin columns peer down into busy alleyways, weaving through hanging laundry and precarious overhead cables.
In the late afternoon it’s caught inside ashen swirls of incense that burn in street markets and temples. And at sundown, finally, it’s diffused into a golden haze by clouds of dust from old dirt roads, smouldering like a bonfire that gives way to darkness only when its last ember flickers out.
