This is the Guardian.

This is how Nisar Ehmuth remembers it.

On the 24th of February 2020, at about three in the afternoon, an uproar outside his house brought him to his window.

A large crowd of men was passing through Bhagirathi Vahar, his neighborhood in North East Delhi, chanting,

victory to Lord Ram, and wake up Hindus, wake up.

Ehmuth conferred with Asma, his wife.

They decided, somewhat uncertainly, that the procession was probably harmless to Muslims like them.

It felt like the usual political slogan-earing Ehmuth recalled.

Politics was politics, but this was a neighborhood where Muslims and Hindus called one another over for Chai,

and sat outside together late at night.

That brotherhood was protection enough.

If there was any disturbance, elders would settle it.

That was the hope anyway.

Ehmuth was a man who lived on hope.

His house overlooked a sewage canal, but when he looked out of his window, he would choose to see instead the unbroken sky.

Small things like this brought him inordinate pleasure.

Ehmuth had come to Delhi from the countryside when he was eleven.

Soon after he arrived, he found a job at a garment factory and worked his way up, and eventually started a small business of his own.

At forty-seven, he felt that financial security was finally within reach.

From the ground of his home, he designed denim garments and sold them across Delhi.

There was enough of a demand for him to buy the house, three motorcycles, and travel to prospective buyers in other cities.

Peering through their window, Ehmuth and Usma saw the procession move down the street.

...