Before the monsoon downpours begin to fall, mildew appears – the omnipresent sister of dampness that invades every corner. It heralds long months during which the gods flood humans with rain. In India, the season of abundance coincides with the time of juicy mangoes and great fear. Water will decide everything.

It’s still dark, an hour before dawn. The night, dense with countryside blackness, will start thinning around 6am. There will be no sunrise, just an uneventful transition from the darkness into murky grey daylight. The night will retreat without notice, rushed out with the first cups of tea so hot they burn hasty lips, chased away with street vendors’ shouts, muezzin calls. It will be dispelled by the tinkling bells of the morning puja prayer rituals with their incense, garlands and little flames, performed in corner shops and on street markets. It will be gone just before the first customers bless the day’s business with their presence.