This time of year, getting up early to beat the traffic means you get to enjoy the mist.
On MG Road, the segments of the Metro appear out of the vanishing point, hanging more massively in the sky than they ever seem on a clear day. The air is heavy and still, broken only by brilliant flashes of blue as kingfishers flit across the road. Passing through DLFville, the skyscrapers are hidden from view, an invisible presence somewhere beyond the black silhouette of the electrical towers that abut the street.
It’s beautiful. As long as you’re not on your way into or out of the city. Every morning the newspaper has stories of canceled trains and flights endlessly delayed. The international flights apparently have the equipment and training to land in any conditions; but the domestic flights are forced to circle endlessly, or head to Mumbai for a dozen hours on the tarmac.
This was the scene outside of work this morning: a fire in the distance, beyond which women in colorful clothes materialized out of nothing. A horn honked somewhere, but it was too weak to matter; the heavy air would not allow sound to disturb it. Gurgaon, for the moment, was at peace.