Fifteen souls turned to ash in a Bombay building blaze, a tragedy so predictable it might as well have been scripted by a committee of arsonists and property developers. The structure, a labyrinth of illegal wiring and fire escapes that would double as suicide chutes, finally coughed up its lethal secret. Enter the British engineers, flapping in like pith-helmeted ghosts of empire past, tasked with inspecting safety standards.
Because nothing says 'trust us' like a nation that once set its own capital on fire and called it a 'great fire.' The audacity of this gesture is staggering. It’s as if the fire brigade arrived, took one look at the inferno, and said: 'Hold on, lads, let’s fetch the chaps who taught us how to build with wood and hope.
' The Indians, naturally, are fuming. They don’t need patronising saviours with clipboards; they need the noose of crony capitalism loosened from around their necks. But no, let’s send in the blazers and the bad coffee, the men who’ll write a report so dry it could be used as kindling.
The real fire, the one that matters, is the slow burner of inequality. Fifteen dead, and the only thing rising is the smoke and the price of imported gin. Cheers.
