October in Shoghi has its own charm — pine-scented breeze, sweaters smelling faintly of mothballs, and the half-road taken over by the local Ramlila group, with the other half still open to buses.

Not too long ago, we sat cross-legged on the rough carpet in front of the stage, waiting for the drama to unfold.

The curtain fluttered, and then it came: a voice that thundered like a cloudburst over the hills. “Main Ravan hoon!” His moustache twitched, his eyes bulged, and the younger kids clutched their mothers in fear. Me? I was impressed. And during interval, I was in line, not to meet the virtuous Lord Rama, or the loyal Hanumanji, but to meet Ravana — our local superstar. Kids shoved phones at him: “Uncle, selfie!” Ravana obliged, grinning like a movie star. Of course, he was the villain

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