Aurangabad, 31 May. In claustrophobic northern India, where generations have grown up breathing in deadly air, dust is a normal part of life. It was February in Manali, Himachal Pradesh, in the western Himalayas. As the winding highway took a turn along the Beas river, our taxi’s clean, just-washed windshield quickly gathered a thick patina of dust.Dogs chased the car, their limbs like the flapping wings of a bird struggling to move through a dust storm. I scanned the dawn mountainscape for lights, subconsciously looking for even the remotest semblance of city life, and saw more dust. As we rolled up our windows, the dust was already between our teeth, covering our clothes and the book in my hand.
As part of a recent series of major infrastructure projects in the state, a new tunnel was inaugurated by the prime minister in October 2020. As work gets on to construct a six-lane highway connecting this remote town with higher areas in the Himalayas, we watched roadside buildings, shops and small towns all bathed in what looked like months of dust, and pondered the true cost of this development. Dust is everywhere in north India, like a trail left behind by the development. Marking its territory, it never leaves us alone, even during vacation. On the highway, in our food, in the washrooms; the dust is omnipresent.
At the start of this trip, on a late February night, we boarded the state transport bus from Delhi to Manali. Through the 12-hour road journey, we were constantly assaulted by a miasma of dust combined with vehicle fumes. Wading through a thick haze, our bus driver tried to maneuvers his way through the slow traffic. That night, unable to stop for dinner or even washroom breaks, I felt more restricted than ever by the dust.
Thick enough to write in
In 2021, in the midst of a raging pandemic, north India is also experiencing a wave of construction. Living and working in Delhi, it feels like there is more dust accumulating than ever before. Each time I cough, I feel a chill rise, the dread of a disease or a longstanding illness waiting to take over my life.
The skies are almost always a shade of yellow, the grime always between our toes; when I pet stray cats in my neighbourhoods, a nebula of dust leaves their scraggly bodies. I look out the window of my room and see a powdery veil obscuring the view. On most days, the coating is so thick and prevalent, I could write in it using my finger.
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