Death was imminent. I was sure of it. It was so humid that the word “air” could be used only sparingly. And it was so hot that there may as well have been an onion on my head and a tomato in my mouth: I was being roasted alive. The thermometer pegged the temperature at 72oC (162oF).
Amidst the continuous flow of trains, people and cargo (living and otherwise) in and out of the New Delhi Railway Station, some trains fill and wait. And wait.