I’ve been out of India for three months. It still burns.
“Everything burns here. The sun on my arms, the dust in my throat. The mosquito bites on every knuckle, hand and foot, and all the unmentionable places. The sting of knowing we’re getting ripped off and knowing there is no other choice. The feeling of heaving mucus and bile into my nose, sat on a toilet and spewing from both ends of my digestive tract.
The news burns. The water, hot or cold, burns. The piles of fabric I have to wear to be decently modest burn and prickle and raise rashes. The food burns my hands. But more than anything, India burns trash. Everywhere, and at all times. The glow of it stays behind my eyes on night buses. It chokes the air. It burns the muzzles of the trash cows, making them living barbeque effigies. Or sacrifices? They are supposed to be holy, so are they just burning on the trash prye alive? Cow sati?
Paris may be a moveable feast, but India is a moveable inferno.” – 12 April, Agra