At 7pm everyday, Delhi’s streets become a patchwork of black and white shirts and slacks — the preferred attire for the city’s armies of young working men, who keep the government and corporate machinery running. In the midst of these monochrome torrents, you often spot some bursts of color — women’s dupattas billowing in the wind or covering their noses for respite from the exhaust fumes of the cars of their bosses. But on the sidewalks and in the shacks, there are many who are still not off work — the balloon man, the ice cream seller, the peddler of pirated books, and the lady with who will braid your hair while embellishing your wrists with bangles. They sell their wares to the crowds streaming into the abyss of the metro station, working well into the night, till their buyers are safely ensconced in the comfort of their beds. All to pay their bills.