by Sanjeev Kr Vishwakarma
A Meeting of Fates
The march dispersed just as the pale sun began its descent behind the shroud of haze. Protesters moved toward the metro station, bus stops, or simply faded into the labyrinth of streets. The slogans had quieted, replaced by the usual hum of the city— a sound more subdued now, as though even the air had become tired of carrying it. I lingered near the central park, notebook in hand, unsure of what I was waiting for but unwilling to leave. The protest had brought something into focus: the crisis wasn’t just to be measured in statistics and scientific reports. It was the heavy breathing of the city itself, a web of lives tangled in the smoke. For all the blame traded back and forth— between farmers, factories, and policymakers— there was something undeniable about the shared pain. Everyone was trapped, the air a silent jailor.
I turned toward the makeshift protest stage, now being dismantled, when I saw Priya again. She was standing near a bench, her mask lowered, her face drawn with fatigue. She caught my eye and waved me over.
“Long day,” I said as I reached her, though it felt like an understatement.
“Long life,” she replied with a dry chuckle, though there was no humour in her eyes. “I was about to head back, but I needed a moment. The air in my clinic feels cleaner than this.”
Her clinic. I remembered her words earlier, about the children she treated— lungs blackened before they even had a chance to grow. “Do you ever feel like you’re fighting a losing battle?” I asked, though I wasn’t sure why. Perhaps I needed to hear someone say something hopeful.
She looked at me for a moment, her lips pressing into a thin line. “Kabhi kabhi1. A lot of the time, actually. But I think about the kids. They didn’t choose this. They don’t deserve this. Someone has to fight for them.”
Her words hung in the air, fragile and heavy at once. I wanted to ask more, to dig deeper, but before I could, a voice called out.
“Dr. Priya! I thought that was you.”
We turned to see a man in his mid-thirties approaching, his face partially obscured by a black rumaal. His clothes were dusty, his posture weary, yet his eyes were bright with recognition.
“Aamir,” Priya said, surprised. “What are you doing here?”
“I was part of the march,” he said, pulling the rumaal down to reveal a rough, sunburnt face. “A few of us from the construction site came. I didn’t expect to see you here.”
Priya smiled faintly. “I suppose we’re all here for the same reason.”
I introduced myself, and Aamir nodded, his handshake firm but quick. As we talked, it became clear that he and Priya had crossed paths before— at her clinic, where she had treated him and several of his coworkers for respiratory problems caused by exposure to construction dust.
“Haalaat bahut kharab hain2,” he said when I asked about his work. “The masks they give us are a joke. The air on-site is so thick with cement and chemicals, you can’t see more than a few feet ahead some days. They tell us to work faster, finish the project sooner, but they don’t care if we get sick doing it.”
His words carried a quiet anger, the kind that comes from years of being ignored. I could see it in his eyes, the same frustration I’d seen in Priya’s earlier, and in Ravi’s during the march. Different struggles, but the same suffocating weight.
As we stood talking, a woman in a crisp white kurta approached. It took me a moment to recognize Tanvi, the government official I’d spoken to earlier. She had swapped the neutral expression she wore during the march for something more open, though there was still a guardedness in her posture.
“You’re not here to scold us, are you?” Priya asked, her tone half-teasing.
Tanvi gave a small smile. “No, I’m here because I wanted to listen. I still do.”
“Listen to what?” Aamir asked, crossing his arms. “More complaints? You’ve already heard them. What are you going to do about it?”
Tanvi hesitated, her gaze dropping to the ground for a moment before meeting his. “I’m not here to defend anyone,” she said. “I know the government has failed in many ways. But it’s not as simple as people think. Policies take time to implement. Funding is limited. Enforcement is even harder.”
“That’s convenient,” Aamir said, his voice sharp. “While you take your time, we’re dying out here.”
“Pataa hai3,” Tanvi said quietly. “And I’m not here to argue with you. I’m here because I want to understand what’s happening on the ground.”
Her sincerity disarmed him slightly, though the tension between them remained palpable. I watched the exchange, torn between frustration at the systemic failures Tanvi represented and a grudging respect for her willingness to stand there and face them.
As the conversation waned, another figure joined us—a man in his early forties with weathered hands and a solemn expression. He introduced himself as Rohit, a farmer from Punjab who had traveled to Delhi for the protest. His sign, which he still carried, read in bold letters: “We Burn Because We Have No Choice.”
“They blame us,” he said, his voice steady but tinged with bitterness. “The politicians, the media, even people here. They look at the smoke in the sky and say it’s because of us. But no one asks why we do it.”
“Why do you?” Priya asked gently.
“Because we don’t have a choice,” Rohit replied, his hands tightening around the sign. “The machines they tell us to use for clearing the stubble—Happy Seeders, they call them—are too expensive. Even with subsidies, most of us can’t afford them. Burning is the only way to clear the fields in time for the next planting season.”
“But isn’t it dangerous?” Tanvi asked. “For your own health, I mean?”
“Of course it is,” he said, his voice rising. “We know it’s bad. We breathe the same air that you do. But what are we supposed to do? Fasal kharaab hone den4? Diwaaliya ho jayen5? The government talks about solutions, but they don’t come fast enough. So we’re stuck.”
His words silenced the group for a moment. The tangled web of blame and desperation felt heavier than the smog around us.
The five of us stood there as the evening deepened, an unlikely gathering of lives that had been pulled into the same vortex. A doctor, a construction worker, a farmer, a government official, and a journalist. Each of us saw the crisis from a different angle, and yet the weight of it bound us together. The air was thick with more than just pollution—it carried the echoes of every untold story, every broken system, every unkept promise.
As the streetlights flickered on, their glow dimmed by the haze, I finally broke the silence. “Ab kya hoga6?”
No one answered immediately. Priya adjusted her mask and glanced at the darkening sky. “We keep fighting,” she said finally, her voice steady. “Aur kar hi kya sakate hain7?”
The others nodded, their expressions somber but resolved. And for the first time that day, I felt something other than despair. It wasn’t hope, exactly—it was too fragile for that. But it was something close, something alive.
We all said our goodbyes and drifted back into the fog. As I walked toward the metro station, I felt the weight of their stories pressing against me, each one a thread in the fabric of a city that was gasping for air. Each one a reminder that we were all breathing the same poisoned air, and that perhaps, just perhaps, we might find a way to clear it together.
Glossary
Literary Latitude 