I have never seen someone at a rustic village market, anklets jingling, shouting slogans for "Khol Company’s Ringworm Ointment." No smooth-talker has ever leaned in, fanning out thin booklets like a deck of cards, whispering rhythmically, "Here are the mysteries of Gopal Bhar, and here—the secret love letters." I never hid colourful advertisements of a reclining Gauhar Jaan, cigarette in hand, between the folds of shirts in my drawer. I did indeed rummage through my grandfather’s pockets to collect old tram tickets, but none of them bore that curious notice for "Ashtavakra Toothpowder." Perhaps the elders of the house witnessed a tram tearing through the heart of a half-awake city, bearing the Khadi Pratisthan’s pledge for cow protection—but there was no question of me witnessing such a sight.…