The capital of the world's largest democracy is, once again, a charnel house. At least twenty-one souls, including several foreign nationals, are now nothing more than a stain on a Delhi factory floor. A fire, the cause of which is 'under investigation' (official for 'we haven't got a clue'), has ripped through a building in the city's old quarter, turning a workplace into a crematorium.
The Indian disaster response, a phrase that should be filed alongside 'military intelligence' and 'jumbo shrimp', is facing the inevitable questions. How could this happen? Again?
The answers, like the bodies, are piling up. This is not a tragedy, it is a routine. It is the price of doing business in a city where safety regulations are considered optional extras, where fire extinguishers are for show, and where the only thing that spreads faster than flames is bureaucratic inertia.
The foreign nationals, poor souls, came to India seeking opportunity. They found a death trap. The Indian government, meanwhile, is busy 'expressing grief and announcing compensation'.
Because nothing says 'we care' like a cheque for a few thousand rupees, handed over with a solemn handshake while the next inferno is already being planned. One cannot help but wonder: how many more must burn before someone is held accountable? The answer, my friends, is blowing in the smoke.
