Delhi crying. Swept by a furious wind, his tears poured on the ground, that wash the dust of the streets and flooded the huts of the fetid slums .
The thunder roared angrily and shakes even the reinforced glass of the hotel's rich, while prodigious lightning darting dragon-like languages. We, behind the glasses, look concerned about the roads that become rivulets, then streams, then swollen rivers carrying mud and dirt from under the walls of our golden prison.
An army of slaves, armed with brooms held in check this tidal wave, thrown out by the immaculate lobby. And outside the gates, water up to his knees, a bunch of beggars, the waste of this class society to the extreme, trudging to reach the motorway bridge, trying to salvage their junk that we throw away but who are disgusted by their treasures: a blanket, a pot, a rusty bicycle without tires.
lights oscillate. A moment of darkness, a cry hysterically. Then go into operation and emergency generators, while outside the dark viene squarciato solo di tanto in tanto dai fulmini, noi siamo in un'oasi di luce e possiamo continuare a goderci i nostri lussi: il bagno caldo, la televisione, il computer con l'accesso alla Rete.
Delhi piange, e nel suo pianto rabbioso e disperato riconosco il mio. Anche io vorrei piangere pensando al mio amore lontano. Anche io vorrei squassare la terra con i tuoni e frustarla con i lampi fino ad averla vicino. Anche io vorrei soffiare un vento rabbioso che mi porti fino da lei.
Ed invece sono qui, a osservare la pioggia che cade, a sentire il tuono che romba, a guardare Delhi che piange e a stringere invano un telefono muto.
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