In the swirling, smog-choked artery of Delhi, a building coughed fire and swallowed 21 souls. Among the charred remains, whispers of foreign nationals. The British consulate, roused from its afternoon chai stupor, has deployed teams. Because nothing says 'diplomatic urgency' like waiting for the flames to cool.
Let us paint the scene. A building, no doubt a labyrinth of electrical tape and ambition, hosting businesses that exist in the grey space between 'start-up' and 'health hazard'. A fire starts. Perhaps a short circuit, perhaps a cigarette, perhaps the collective sigh of a city pushed past its limit. The flames, like eager civil servants, climbed the floors with bureaucratic efficiency.
Twenty one dead. The number hangs in the air, a grim tally. But wait, the real news: some of them were not Indian. They were foreign. And when a foreigner dies in a fire, the Empire stirs. Consular teams are deployed. This is not about saving lives; the lives are already over. This is about the paperwork. The forms. The 'next of kin' notifications. The solemn duty of ensuring the body count is properly catalogued, like library books returned a day late.
What were these foreigners doing in that burning building? The press release does not say. Perhaps they were entrepreneurs, chasing the Indian dream. Perhaps they were tourists, seeking a 'authentic' experience. Or perhaps they were just people, trying to make a living in a city that chews up dreams and spits out dust. But now they are statistics, dressed up with consular visits.
And the British consular teams, what are they doing? Are they fighting the fires? No, that is for the locals. Are they comforting the injured? The injured are already taken. They are there to 'provide support'. Which translates to: sitting in an air-conditioned office, making phone calls, writing reports, and appearing deeply concerned. The perfect job for people who excel at appearing.
Delhi burns regularly. It is a city of fire. Indeed, the heat itself is a slow, burning death. But when the flames are real, when the smoke billows and the bodies pile, the international community asks: 'Were any of them ours?' And if the answer is yes, the consulates mobilise. Not for justice, not for prevention, but for the management of grief. They are the grief managers, the sorrow accountants.
So let us raise a glass (of room-temperature gin, naturally) to the 21 dead. And to the foreign nationals among them, who have taught us a valuable lesson: to die in a foreign land is to ensure your death gets an extra layer of bureaucracy. The consular teams are deployed. The machinery of empire grinds into motion. And somewhere, a civil servant is drafting a perfectly worded condolence letter, while Delhi continues to burn.
This is Biff Thistlethwaite, signing off. Cheers.
