In the early afternoon, the sun cast a golden hue over the city of Dwarka. A peculiar, mingled scent—a blend of many different things—hung in the air. Atop the towering spire of the Dwarkadhish Temple, a new divine flag fluttered against a sky that seemed faded from centuries of prayers. Stepping out into the grand courtyard, Doyel adjusted the end of her cotton saree against the breeze and immediately locked eyes on the pair walking ahead. They were an older South Indian couple. The gentleman was comfortably portly, carrying himself with the tranquil, deliberate elegance of a retired professor who had long made peace with the universe. He walked a half-step behind his wife, perfectly content to let her navigate the crowd of pilgrims, cows, and souvenir peddlers. She, on the other hand, was draped in a traditional, heavy Kanjivaram silk, her forehead adorned with three crisp, horizontal lines of…
