Each winter, Delhi disappears into its own breath. The sun dims behind a thick grey wall; the horizon blurs; the air tastes of burnt crops and diesel. People joke about “smog season”, as if a slow public asphyxiation were as natural as the monsoon. Those who can leave, do. The rest of Delhi — its millions of migrant workers, cleaners, builders, drivers, those who keep the city alive — suffocate in slow defeat.
Over the decades, India has perfected a way of surviving catastrophe: the rich simply opt out. When healthcare fails, the rich build their own hospitals. When the water turns brown, we install filters at home and lay private pipelines. With every blistering summer, Delhi rebuilds itself as an archipelago of air-conditioned fortresses, each a small insurance policy against the failure of the collective.
Health is purchased, education is corporatised, water comes in bottles, safety comes with private guards.
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