The homes are small and unassuming, made of straw, sheet metal or brick, befitting to the SES of the owner. Beyond the clusters houses, where neighbors are always looking in through large windows sharing smiles and news, lie the luminous green fields. Their expanses, dissected only by narrow dusty paths that simmer in the heat between rice paddies, delights in the rich, silt-laden soil. The farmers and and villagers bend in these fields, working to plant and harvest, standing amongst the haze and mist from a thousand cookstoves and the humidity rising off the plants. They make their way slowly along the paths as they work the land, walking home with bare dusty feet accustomed to the hard, crumbly ground, or, if tired, riding home on one of the bicycle-driven “van-gadis” weaving through the busy village roads. Life is bustling in the evenings. A barber, shaving a man’s beard at 9pm, people haggling over the price of DVDs, women with saris draped over their hair, walking home in clusters after buying snack at the local stand. Dinner at 9pm, conversation and family time until midnight or 1 am. Then again, to sleep, until the insistence of the cows and traffic and sunlight wakes you in the morning hours to begin again.