Once the refuge of out-of-breath Delhiites, the lower Himalayas are sinking under the weight of reckless ‘development’ and real estate rapacity. The tall guardians of the Gangetic plains are crumbling like cookies. Now it’s not just buses that fall off slopes. In the new nursery rhyme, Jack falls down, and the hill comes tumbling after! The mountains where we once went for a whiff of the eternal now themselves look mortal. Four-laned highways to hell—at least we are going down in style.
Goa, the other beloved escapade, has turned into a Punjabi shaadi banquet hall. Fish curry and bebinca are retreating in the face of butter chicken and tandoori platters, while reels helpfully explain how to get a Portuguese passport in six easy steps. As for Europe—well, half the Swiss villages seem to be staffed, fed, or caffeinated by our own. We run the pizzerias and the Pilatus Bahnen. Sardars have perfected French cheese, Bangladeshi chefs rustle up an arabbiata sauce as well as an Italian grandma.
Meanwhile, Suvendu Adhikari continues to believe Bangladeshis are migrating upriver like swarms of hilsa, just to add political nutrition to Didi’s plate. If only he’d look up from his script and see where the actual migration is happening. The exodus is outward—anywhere with breathable air, potable water, functional civic sense.
If you drive to any of Delhi’s clogged arteries, you can smell the burnt air. I could take bagfuls of it at ITO and print a newspaper with it. This is what a passing truck used to feel like, with your windows down. Now it comes through the cracks like a truth no government vanity ad can erase. It sits in your throat long after you’ve returned home.
Your lungs do not have the power even to voice your angst.
Priyanka Gandhi says there is nothing enjoyable about Delhi’s winter any more. This winter feels tailor-made to prove her right. With Parliament in session, the air inside and outside is equally thick—with local intrigue, the global mystery about what Putin’s Christmas gift may contain, and plenty of PM2.5. The LG and CM have met for a ritual exchange of concern. That gave us a few sprinklers, strung up helplessly on dusty dividers like sultanate-era convicts. Condemned to spew foamy water into Pandemonium.