New Delhi, India, Prime Minister's Office
The scorching sunlight was baking the lawn in front of the Prime Minister's Office, and among the hundreds of journalists and officials standing on the grass, quite a few were covering their noses.
Fuck… it stinks!
Smells like cow shit.
They held up cameras and recording equipment, all aimed at the podium that had just been set up.
Indian Prime Minister Indira Kumar Gujral adjusted the microphone. Today he had deliberately chosen a traditional white kurta, with a fresh marigold pinned to his chest, and on his face was a look that mixed solemnity with provocation.
"Ladies and gentlemen, friends from the international community."
His English carried a heavy Indian accent, but his enunciation was clear and forceful. "In the past few months, the world has witnessed a heartbreaking tragedy: a great civilized nation, weakened by the schemes of external forces and internal betrayal, is facing an unprecedented crisis of division."
