Evening rituals

At quarter to 7 p.m. in Golf Links, one of Delhi's toniest enclaves, the clanging of bells and a conch shell horn sound from an unseen temple on the other side of the clay tennis courts, obscured by the leaf-covered wall. The stench of garbage cooking in the 105-degree heat floats in the air, mixed with the scent of cumin frying in sesame oil. "It is not by chance but by choice," my instructor, Afzal, says, when I turn away to take a big gulp of water. "Because you will receive a higher reward?" I say. "That's right," he says. "So don't feel bad."

A plume of smoke rises over the far side of the courts, and peacocks mewl. It is a great test in concentration. I lose the game 3-6 and Afzal and several of his cousin-brothers and a sister saunter over to a circle of plastic chairs around a huge bowl of cut fruit and bags of dates to break their Ramadan fast. All is distraction, all is perfection.