In a spectacular feat of poor planning and arsonist ambition, a fire in the heart of Delhi has incinerated the lives of at least 21 souls, including some unfortunate foreign nationals who had the audacity to visit. The British Consulate, ever the beacon of colonial guilt, has offered aid, presumably in the form of a stiff gin and tonic and a stern letter of concern. The blaze, which tore through a building in the capital's commercial district, has left authorities scrambling for answers while the rest of us scramble for the nearest exit.
Witnesses describe scenes of chaos that would make a Kafka novel look like a child's bedtime story. The dead include a mix of locals and tourists, proving once again that death is the ultimate equal opportunity employer. Meanwhile, the British offer of assistance has been met with a mixture of gratitude and the kind of hollow laughter that only the truly cynical can produce.
Perhaps they'll throw in a few biscuits and a regretful sigh for good measure. As the embers cool and the body count rises, one can only wonder: when will we learn that fire is not a suitable interior design choice? The answer, dear readers, is never.
For in the theatre of human stupidity, we are all merely supporting actors waiting for our final curtain call. And the British consulate, with its vague promises and wet blankets, will always be there to offer a handshake and a platitude as the world burns around us.
