A cold Sunday morning in Old Delhi. Somebody has died. A handsome young man with day-old stubble, wearing a shirt but no sweater, leads the Islamic funeral procession - his eyes vacant. It could not have been a child’s death. The body, covered in a green cloth, is more substantial. Many sad shoulders perspire under the weight of the coffin as it bobs up and down on its last journey.

The procession halts at a traffic light. Life swirls into action in the adjacent street that was silent only a moment ago. A horse-drawn tonga trots past. Fast-moving cars swiftly disappear. A filthy beggar, dozing on the cemented pavement, wraps the torn blanket more tightly around him. A lady perched on the back of a zooming motorbike glances at the coffin and instinctively touches her forehead in reverence.

When the light turns green the young man rushes ahead, reaches the center of the busy square, and moves his hands in both directions - as though requesting all the traffic to halt. Then he turns back, gently gesturing the procession to follow.

As they proceed past a bus stop three mourners spill out of the convoy to catch their breath, while waiting commuters are fascinated by somebody else’s grief. A veiled Hindu woman in a bright orange sari silently murmurs prayers. Somebody snaps pictures with a digital camera. But the procession is not distracted. It moves along with a heavy tread onto Bahadur Shah Zafar Avenue, towards a graveyard not anywhere in sight.

Two old gentlemen lag behind. "Everyone who has come to this world will depart some day,” says one. The other, shaking his head, observes, "That is true." And perhaps they thought about something Prophet Mohammad once said: “The eyes shed tears and the heart is grieved. But we will not say anything except which pleases our Lord.”