Kripesh Ojha Arjun stepped out of the rickshaw into the narrow street of the old city, his leather portfolio pressed tightly under his arm as though it might shield him from the stares of curious shopkeepers and children darting past in a whirl of marigold and dust. The haveli loomed at the end of the lane, its arched gateway half collapsed, the carved latticework dulled by soot and time. He had seen photographs in Delhi, of course—grainy images clipped to project files—but the reality was heavier, stranger. The once-vibrant frescoes on the courtyard walls were now ghostly figures, colors leached…