Let’s be honest. The air quality monitors are being tampered with, numbers are being softened, and politicians are busy slinging mud at one another over who should shoulder the blame for Delhi’s poisonous air. Yet, amid all the outrage and the press conferences, we remain no closer to a solution. The powerful sit cocooned in their filtered comfort, their air purifiers humming steadily as they issue statements from sterile rooms. Meanwhile, the rest of us are left to inhale poison and pretend this is normal. Each morning brings another article about declining lifespans, weakened lungs, and children growing up with respiratory issues that should belong to the elderly. It feels as though the city itself is gasping for breath, and we are simply expected to live with it. The truth is as cruel as it is familiar: human life has never been worth much.
Over the past fortnight, I have woken up every morning with an itchy throat and a dull, stubborn headache that lingers like background static. I brush it off, take a sip of water, and get on with the day, as most of us do. But in conversations with friends and colleagues, I realise this quiet suffering has become universal. Everyone has the same symptoms, the same fatigue, the same dread of stepping outside.
Once upon a time, Delhi’s winter was a thing of poetry. It was the city at its most beguiling — mist draping the trees in Lutyens’ Delhi, the scent of roasted peanuts in the air, shawls coming out of trunks, the promise of long drives and late-night chai. Today, the mist has turned into a heavy, choking haze. The romance of winter has been replaced by the weight of survival. It is no longer the most awaited season; it is the one we fear most.
A recent news report quoted a well-known doctor advising that those who can afford to should leave Delhi for six to eight weeks until the air clears. But is that really an answer? What happens to the millions who cannot simply pack up and leave? Must the right to breathe clean air now depend on privilege and proximity to wealth?
In the midst of this despair, I came across a few Instagram reels that offered something different — not outrage, not denial, but practical comfort. Simple, homegrown remedies shared by people who are trying to protect their families in the only ways they can. Because let’s face it, the world will not stop for us. The haze will not lift because we are tired. So, for the sake of our health, we do what we can.
One of these reels featured Gurugram-based Surabhi Bhandari, who shared her family’s seasonal ritual of having amla and turmeric shots every morning. “These amla and fresh turmeric shots are my family’s favourite. We all know the immunity-boosting properties of amla, turmeric and ginger. They not only strengthen immunity but also aid digestion, regulate blood pressure and blood sugar, and reduce congestion caused by seasonal infections,” she explains.
Author and food consultant Sangeeta Khanna takes a more soothing approach. “I would recommend having a light tisane made with dry ginger and tulsi, with a hint of pepper,” she shares. “A touch of jaggery can be added, not to sweeten, but to help settle dust particles.” You can almost picture it — the steam rising from a warm cup, the earthy scent of tulsi filling the room. Khanna suggests sipping this tisane two or three times a day, free of tea leaves or milk, to cleanse the system gently.
She also speaks of oil pulling with coconut oil every morning, followed by clearing the nasal passages. “If done correctly,” she says, “it helps expel most of the trapped impurities.” For those who spend long hours on the road, she recommends small pieces of jaggery, consumed like lozenges, to settle the dust and prevent frequent coughing — a simple yet effective way to combat the city’s daily assault.
These practices, passed down quietly through generations, remind us that resilience often begins in the smallest of acts. While governments debate and policies stall, we return to our kitchens and our herbs, to rituals that have always looked after us. In a time when breathing clean air feels like a privilege, perhaps these small, mindful habits are our quiet rebellion — our way of reclaiming a sliver of control over our well-being, and holding on to the belief that we deserve better than to simply endure.