Broad Street, Reading. Office blocks. Glass box buildings.

A crowded south Indian restaurant. Women in saris. Men with masala dosas on big plates. Silver lassi jugs, and big bottles of Cobra. What are my people doing here, in the midst of it all?, W. wonders. They're software engineers, I tell him. Computer programmers, come to work in the Thames Valley. They're following the international flow of capital, I tell him, and bringing India with them.

Pictures of the gods on the wall. A statue of Shiva in dark wood, with a garland of flowers. - 'India in Reading!', W. exclaims. 'It won't last. It can't last'. The Indians will settle down in the suburbs. They'll stop going to the temple, stop celebrating Deepvali. Capitalism demands that! You shall have no other gods than me: isn't that what the international flow of capital proclaims?

Actually, capitalism has its gods, too, W. says. Transitory gods. Appearing and disappearing gods. Isn’t that what we see, flashing on the windows of the company foyers? Isn’t that what is visible on the windshields of the company cars?