Protesters on top of a signpost outside Trump Tower. Thousands of Americans took to the streets in protest a day after Trump was elected president. Pic/AFP

The shower head in my bathroom refuses to stop dripping, each drop rippling the surface of the previous collection of drops, resulting in a relentless plonk. The plumber hasn’t been able to wrap his head around this anomaly. It’s deeply ironic, the fact that since April my flat has been suffering from the worst water crisis in the four years since I’ve been its inhabitant. My primary source of water has been tankers sent by the Jal board. And now this unceasing slipping, this drip-drop-drip-drop. It’s beginning to assume slightly metaphorical proportions. Having witnessed second-hand the strange mockery of democracy, the election of an orange goblin as head of the proudest first-world nation, the bizarre witch hunt against activist Nandini Sundar, the continuing violation of human rights in our immediate neighbourhood — it feels like an onrush. And I’m slightly envious of the woman my friend spotted on Tuesday evening at a Fortis Hospital in Green Park, who decided to get rid of her black money by purchasing R1.5 lakh worth of air purifiers and baby diapers. The shit has really hit the ceiling, and the rotating fan sends it flying off in a thousand different directions. Those of you who have managed some degree of optimism, do realize what they say about the butterfly effect is not untrue.