From the small temple at the lane’s end, the sound of bells and conch shells echoed. Kavya pulled her grandmother’s shawl tighter. They joined the throng. As the priest waved the brass lamp of five flames, the fire traced a lazy, luminous circle in the dark. Kavya closed her eyes. For a single, suspended second, the honking ceased, the poverty vanished, the impossible pressure of the city dissolved. There was only the flame, the faith, and the fragrance of jasmine.
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