So generally I live a very insulated life here in Delhi, not too bothered by the sometimes-grim realities of living in a developing country. Although my fingers are frozen in the morning, I am not on the streets; I will not die because the temperature is dipping to a 70-year low of about 0 degrees Celsius (32 Fahrenheit, U.S. folk). I don't have to worry about whether or not I will eat tomorrow, and although I complain about my office transportation, I know that I'll be delivered safely home with a minimum of harassment.
But yesterday, I was again reminded that life isn't so good for everyone.
Around 6:30, near Andheria More (at least by the geography of the bus hoardings), a car to our Qualis' right ran into a man on a bike. The car glanced off his back wheel, throwing the man onto the street entangled in the bike's frame. A bystander lifted the bike off the man and carried it off the street, but the guy, short, in worn brown pants and shirt, a muffler unwinding from his neck, remained on the ground for about 30 seconds.
The car continued, didn't even pause.
The Prime Minister halted our vehicle and rolled down his window to try and communicate with the man, now walking dazed into oncoming traffic. I cringed when he coughed up blood, flinched at the right side of his face, rubbed raw by the road. There was no response; Manmohanji shrugged and shifted gears, and we saw the man no longer.
I don't know how many more times I can see things like this.