here is a particular kind of quiet that arrives in Jalandhar in late July, when the rain has been falling long enough that the dust has finally given up. The neem outside is washed clean. The light through the kitchen window turns that soft grey-gold that photographers chase and rarely catch. And on the counter, in a paper bag from the Sunday market, there are plums — deep red, slightly soft at the tips, smelling faintly of something between rose and wine.