Sunday at almost exactly 2 a.m., I was in the middle of a particularly bad dream when the phone rang. Everyone hates phone calls in the middle of the night, and ever since I moved to the States, I’ve been convinced that if the phone rings late at night, it can only mean that my parents are calling to let me know my grandmother has died. (She’s fine, in case you’re wondering where this is going.)

I stayed under the covers and waited to hear the answering machine pick up. I don’t know if it was the relative quiet in . . .

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This is a picture of a Gurudwara, a Sikh temple across the street from Pulao’s family’s flat in Delhi. Pretty, no? Majestic and holy?

No. Sorry. Wrong answer.

It may look nice, but the Gurudwara has loudspeakers — two speakers on each corner of the temple, pointing out. Pointing across the street. Loud loudspeakers.

At five in the morning our first day here, it seemed that people from the Gurudwara were shouting in my bedroom. The Sikh priest was leading a . . .

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