Chapter 8Iris was startled by the busy contours of the street in the sunlight. There was a bustling spillover of life entirely absent in the silence of the night; a cacophony of street horns punctuated by the deep timbre of the trucks, and over it all hovered the scent of ripe guavas. A temple forged out of marble glistened in the sun, looming large at the T-junction ahead. As the auto rickshaw thrummed at the red traffic light, the temple bells began to toll the arati. Iris could see the flocks of devotees, hands hovering over the holy flame, eyes closed in prayer. She saw the priests, bare-bodied except for a sacred string slung over the shoulder, sprinkling sacred water over dark hair. There were fidgety children. A stray mutt pushed at a discarded banana leaf with its nose.
aratiThen
