At seven o'clock on Sunday morning, the market was already coming to life. Bakers were hooking the first batches of nan bread out of tandoor ovens. Snack-sellers were lighting fires under their stoves, setting up cauldrons of soup to boil, and chopping piles of vegetables and hunks of mutton. The rising sun spilled through the poplar trees bordering the field, marking out long fingers of light on the ground. And already the first market-traders were arriving, steering donkey carts laden with produce, or driving flocks of bleeting sheep into the great livestock enclosure. Hungry after an early start, I bought a nan from one of the bakers. The golden, onion-speckled crust yielded to fluffy white dough: it was magnificently tasty.

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