By Sanjeev Kr Vishwakarma
The Fog That Never Lifted
The morning began in shades of grey. I woke to the muted sound of my alarm, its usual shrillness dampened by the thick, oppressive air that seeped into my apartment. The sunlight, if it could still be called that, trickled through my window like a pale ghost, unable to break through the smog that had turned Delhi into a city of shadows. I sat up in bed, coughing reflexively. My throat was dry, my lungs heavy. This was the new normal, though nothing about it felt normal to me. The air purifier hummed in the corner of my room, its tiny blue light a pitiful reassurance against the invisible menace outside. I reached for my inhaler on the nightstand, took a quick puff, and swung my legs over the edge of the bed. The window in my living room framed a view that had once been alive with colours—bright billboards, the distant shimmer of high-rises, the green of trees lining the streets. Now, all I could see was a landscape smothered by haze. Cars moved like sluggish insects, their headlights struggling to pierce through the smog. The trees, what little I could make out of them, looked like spectres with gnarled branches reaching into a sky that had forgotten how to be blue.
I pulled on a thick scarf, wrapping it tightly around my nose and mouth. It wouldn’t stop the toxins, but it might trick my mind into thinking I was safer. The protest was scheduled to begin at 10 a.m. in Connaught Place today,10 December 2031, and I had to be there. It was my job as a journalist to cover it, but it was more than that. I needed to see, to understand, to feel the anger and desperation that had driven hundreds—maybe thousands—to take to the streets despite the choking air. I grabbed my bag, slipping my inhaler into it, and stepped outside.
The first breath was always the hardest. The air hit me like a wall, thick and bitter, filling my lungs with something that didn’t feel like oxygen. My chest tightened immediately, and I coughed, doubling over for a moment as my body tried to reject the poison. Around me, the street moved in a strange, muted rhythm, the usual chaos of Delhi slowed by the fog that blanketed everything.
A chai vendor stood at the corner, pouring tea into kulhads with a kind of resigned efficiency. The steam rose for a moment before being swallowed by the haze. A group of schoolchildren passed me, their backpacks hanging heavily from their small frames. Their faces were hidden behind brightly coloured masks with cartoon characters on them—masks that looked more like a cruel joke than actual protection. One of the children was coughing, his small frame shaking with each breath, but they kept walking.
The rickshawwala huddled under a makeshift shelter, their scarves pulled high over their noses. One of them waved at me. “Madam ji, ride?” he called out, his voice muffled but hopeful.
I shook my head and gestured down the road. “Nahi bhaiya, thank you.”
I needed to walk. I needed to feel the weight of the city pressing against me, to see the faces of the people who lived here, to breathe in the same air they did—even if it hurt.
The traffic was a slow-moving river of frustration. Cars, buses, and motorcycles inched forward, their engines spewing out plumes of smoke that blended seamlessly with the fog. The honking was incessant, a chaotic symphony of impatience that felt both futile and inevitable. A delivery boy on a scooter zipped past me, his face hidden behind a rumaal and sunglasses. His shoulders were hunched, his movements hurried, as if he could outrun the air itself.
I stopped at a falwala’s stall, not because I wanted to buy fruits, but because I needed a moment to catch my breath. The falwala, an elderly man with a lined face and calloused hands, was arranging oranges in neat rows. His movements were methodical, almost meditative, but his eyes were red-rimmed, his breathing laboured.
“Dhandha slow hai aaj?” I asked, my voice muffled by the scarf.
He looked up at me, his expression unreadable. “Hawa jaharili ho gayi hai. Who wants to buy fruit in this air?” he replied, gesturing to the haze around us. “It tastes like smoke. Everything does.”
I nodded, unsure of what to say. He turned back to his work, and I continued walking.
The metro station was a relief, though only slightly. Underground, the air was less toxic, but the staleness was suffocating in its own way. The platform was crowded, as always. People stood in tight clusters, their faces hidden behind masks and scarves, their eyes darting toward the tracks with a mixture of impatience and exhaustion. When the train arrived, its exterior coated in grime, I squeezed into the carriage. The air inside was heavy with the scent of sweat and unspoken tension. A man standing next to me was holding a briefcase in one hand and a newspaper in the other. The headline read: “Delhi Air Quality Dips to Hazardous Levels—Again.” I glanced at it, but the words blurred together. I didn’t need the paper to tell me what I already knew.
A child sitting on her mother’s lap was coughing—a harsh, dry sound that seemed to echo through the carriage. The mother held her close, whispering something into her ear, but her expression was one of quiet despair. I wanted to say something, to offer some kind of comfort, but what could I possibly say? That it would get better? That the air would clear? I didn’t believe it myself.
When I emerged from the metro station at Rajiv Chowk, the air hit me again, harder this time. I doubled over, pulling my scarf tighter as I fumbled for my inhaler. Two quick puffs, and I straightened up, my lungs still burning but functional. Around me, the city was moving in slow motion, its usual energy dulled by the weight of the fog. Connaught Place loomed ahead, its colonial-era architecture barely visible through the haze. The protest had already begun, the faint sound of chants and slogans reaching me before I could see the crowd. I quickened my pace, my notebook and pen ready in my bag.
When I finally reached the central park, the scene was both familiar and surreal. Hundreds of people had gathered, their faces obscured by masks and scarves, their signs raised high. The slogans were angry, desperate: “Right to Breathe,” “Stop Poisoning Our Future,” “Hawa Bachao, Dharati Baachao, Jindagi Bavhao” and “Car aur Factories Band Karo”. Some carried posters depicting gas masks and skeletal trees, symbols of a city on the brink.
I spotted Ravi at the front of the crowd, his megaphone held high. His voice carried through the haze, sharp and urgent.
“Every year, it gets worse!” he shouted. “Every year, they tell us to wait, to be patient. But how many more people have to die before they take this seriously?”
The crowd roared in response, their voices muffled but powerful. I stood on the edges, my pen poised over my notebook, trying to capture the moment. But how do you describe a city suffocating under its own weight? How do you convey the slow violence of breathing poison every single day?
The air around me felt heavier than ever, each breath a reminder of the fragility of life in Delhi. And yet, amidst the haze and the chants, I felt something else—a flicker of defiance, of hope. These people weren’t just here to protest. They were here to fight. For themselves, for their children, for the air that was their right.
I took another deep breath—bitter, metallic, suffocating—and kept writing.
Glossary
Chai: tea.
Kulhads: clay cups.
Rickshawwala: Rikshaw driver.
Ji: meant to show respect.
Nahi bhaiya: not interested.
Rumaal: large handkerchief.
Falwala: fruit vendor.
Dhandha slow hai aaj: Business is slow today.
Hawa jaharili ho gayi hai: Air has become toxic.
Hawa Bachao, Dharati Baachao, Jindagi Bavhao: save air, save earth, save life.
Car aur Factories Band Karo: Ban cars and factories.
Literary Latitude 