On the outskirts of Delhi, the colossal waste mountain of Ghazipur rises like a storm frozen in time, a seventy-metre-high toxic shadow looming over the city. Exceeding its capacity nearly two decades ago, this monstrous landfill has continued to grow, now towering higher than the Taj Mahal itself.
The air here is thick and suffocating, heavy as the silence before an impending tempest. Each breath fills the body with poison; each step quickens the heartbeat. Every day, women and children climb this mountain as if confronting the eye of a storm, digging through its depths to unearth fragments of plastic, fleeting treasures exchanged for a few coins.
Like a cyclone, the mountain expands inexorably, a dark tide spreading over more than forty football fields. The wind carries invisible yet deadly particles, contaminating everything in its path. Living beneath this massive presence is like dwelling under a perpetual storm, a toxic tempest that never ends. Diseases multiply, and the ravages of this “storm of waste” extend for kilometres, eroding the health and hope of all who live in its shadow.
Handprinting still in progress.
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