2
Mumbai, India. 10.35am
The massive statue of the god dominated the room. Its golden surface glinted, reflecting the light of the candles before it as Shiva Nataraja, Lord of the Dance, ushered in the next cycle of destruction and renewal. A wreath of bright orange marigolds, their petals still wet with dew, lay around his neck and the thick smell of them permeated the room, hemmed in by heavy curtains that kept the city out. The calm gaze of the god rested on the dying man in the bed before him. The room was luxurious, a fitting place for the final hours of one of the richest men in Mumbai. But death came for the rich in their towers as well as the poor crouched in the slums down the road, and Vishal Kapoor couldn't buy any more time.
Asha Kapoor stood by the bed, watching her father.
