India, June 16 -- There was a time when evenings in small towns arrived gently. Shops did not shut; they softened into twilight. A bicycle leaned against a tea stall, a radio hummed an old Lata melody somewhere in the distance, and on verandahs old men sat not to discuss the stock market or elections, but to watch the day recede like a familiar guest reluctant to leave. Nothing spectacular happened, and yet life felt mysteriously complete. Now those evenings seem to survive only in memory.

The verandahs are disappearing first. In their place rise tall gates, tinted windows, and houses designed less for living and more for exhibition. The old wooden chairs where grandparents once sat have been replaced by carefully arranged drawing rooms ...