Two days into my return and my throat is already terribly sore. As we stood in front of the luggage conveyor belt at the New Delhi airport for almost an hour, fingers crossed that our bags made the journey, we were enveloped in smog. Everything felt blurry and out of focus. In the cab, I covered my mouth and nose with my thick scarf, hoping it would protect me from the sudden invasion of pollutants. I could picture my clean lungs getting steadily clogged. The next night I began to feel an ache in my throat, which persists. I tell myself that I need to hold out just another eight days before I take my 27-hour-long train journey to Goa to be reunited with my parents and my sister for Christmas. Hopefully my immune system won-t give up on me before then.

As much as I love, absolutely love being back in my apartment; a most wonderful bubble I built for myself and which I share with a friend I love and, now, my partner, I have begun to loathe the culture of inconsideration that has entrenched itself in the city. You would expect a city full of people with considerable wealth to behave better with each other, to care more. It-s simple economics, if you own a house and want the property rates to increase so you stand to accumulate long-term gain, you invest in the environment around your asset, you encourage its ecosystem to thrive. But I-m flabbergasted to think of what motive most people might have for owning land or property in the Indian capital when it has already become unliveable.