The first sounds of morning in South Delhi were not roosters crowing or the clang of metal buckets, but the soft, calculated hum of a dishwasher finishing its cycle, the distant hiss of an espresso machine downstairs, and the shuffle of leather-soled slippers against imported hardwood floors.

The summer morning in Delhi had a soft golden glow, made cooler and gentler by the tall, double-glass windows of the Sharma home. On a quiet lane in Maharani Bagh, hidden behind tall walls and heavy iron gates, the Sharma house looked like something out of a well-kept museum. Its marble porch was spotless, the hedges were trimmed into neat round shapes, and the only sounds were the light hiss of garden sprinklers and the steady, quiet scrape of a broom as the gardener cleaned the stone path.