From Janpath Road in the centre of Delhi, the Indira Gandhi National Centre for the Arts appears almost deserted. I’m at the wrong gate, but the security guard manning it lets me slide through anyway and points me in the direction of the amphitheatre. A faint glow can be made out on the other side of a rise. The few people about the place are making their way here.
It says something about the places I’ve been staying—places like the hotel down the road where, when I opened the window earlier this evening, it came off its hinges and dangled precariously from my grip four stories above the street—that this is the first time I’ve seen the Indian middle-class in any great number.
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