IT'S 12 noon, and I'm stuck in horrific traffic on the mammoth flyover on Ring Road in South Delhi. The sun is spitting 45 degrees of its dry searing temperature over this concrete desert. At this height, we're above everyone else in the city. We're closer to the sun than anyone else in the city. Nothing else is moving, not even the air. The air has lost the battle of the sun. Like an overwrought donkey, my car is struggling to get fresh air in. I try to amuse my co-workers at the back of the car, feeding them nonsensical stories of an expatriate life before they all wilt away. Before we all wilt away.
Every pore of my body is like my car. It's over-heating in this open oven of a flyover. What have we done to incur the wrath of the sun?
