City of Djinns. William Dalrymple

replied one of the men, lighting another low, wide oil lamp of prehistoric design. ‘We are working for Electricity Board.’

      More comprehensible celebrations were being conducted around the square outside our house. Mrs Puri’s numberless grandchildren were scattered outside her gate throwing sparklers and Catherine wheels at each other. Next door, Mr Seth was letting off a volley of roman candles for the benefit of a gathering of portly-looking retired railway officials.

      My landlady, however, refused to have anything to do with such extravagance. ‘Actually these fireworks are too costly,’ she explained when I met her on the stairs. ‘Money is not for burning.’

      Mrs Puri, it emerged, adhered to a characteristically monetary interpretation of the Diwali festival. Most Hindus agree that Diwali marks the triumphant return of Ram and Sita to their north Indian capital, Ayodhya, following their successful war against Ravanna in Lanka; hence the festival’s date, some three weeks after the victory commemorated at Dusshera. But Mrs Puri would have none of it.

      ‘Mr William,’ she said. ‘You must understand that Diwali is a very important night for us.’

      ‘Why is that, Mrs Puri?’

      ‘Diwali is not about burning money,’ said my landlady, her eyes glinting. ‘It is about accumulating it.’

      ‘Oh?’

      ‘Diwali is the festival of Laxmi, the Goddess of Wealth,’ explained Mrs Puri. ‘If we light candles and leave our front door open, on this night Laxmi will come into our house and count all our moneys.’