This morning the clouds hovering over the New Delhi sky rumbled cantankerously, as if a thousand airplanes were searing into the horizon all at once. It produced a series of long-drawn sonic rants that were syncopated by the thud of raindrops.

It felt monsoonal, almost, which was unexpected considering this northern region of the country had celebrated Basant last Saturday. I know for certain because that afternoon, as I entered the lobby of the Lodhi Hotel, I saw one section of the silk cotton tree resplendently in bloom. I remember sinking into a space of profound happiness. There was sunlight everywhere, peering through foliage, lighting up details on faces, gleaming upon Mughal-era domes.