The Sharma house had not slept.

By six in the morning, the whole lane knew. Strings of marigold hung from every window, thick and heavy, their smell settling over the street like a blessing. The gate had been wrapped in gold and orange cloth, and fairy lights had been strung through the old neem tree until it looked as though someone had shaken the stars loose into its branches. Somewhere a speaker was testing the dhol — thump, thump, thump — and the sound rolled down the narrow street and made the neighbours lean out of their windows and smile.