As temperatures across India’s capital continue to climb during another summer of extreme heat, the impact is being felt most acutely by those with little protection from the elements. For the hundreds of thousands of people living on Delhi’s streets, daily life unfolds under relentless heat, limited access to essential services and constant uncertainty about safety and survival.

Among them is Shahida, a 20-year-old mother who lives with her family beneath a flyover in Delhi. Their home consists of a section of pavement where they sleep under mosquito nets and store their belongings. Throughout the day and night, they remain exposed to conditions that climate experts say are becoming increasingly dangerous as heatwaves intensify across the region.

Delhi has been experiencing sustained high temperatures, with daytime readings regularly reaching 43 degrees Celsius. Nighttime temperatures have also remained unusually elevated, providing little relief after sunset. According to reported meteorological data, the city recently recorded its warmest May night in nearly 14 years.As authorities issue repeated heat alerts and many residents seek refuge indoors, an estimated 300,000 people living without permanent shelter continue to face direct exposure to extreme temperatures.

Their vulnerability extends beyond heat alone, encompassing challenges related to food security, drinking water, sanitation and healthcare access.Climate researchers say homelessness significantly increases the risks associated with extreme weather.

Chandni Singh, a lead author with the Intergovernmental Panel on Climate Change, noted that people without stable housing often lack reliable access to basic resources required to cope with prolonged periods of heat.“Beyond exposure alone, homelessness is often accompanied by unreliable access to food, water and healthcare all of which are essential to cope with and adapt to extreme heat,” Singh said.

The consequences can be severe. According to a report by the Centre for Holistic Development, at least 192 homeless individuals died during a nine-day period of extreme heat in Delhi last summer. The deaths highlighted the disproportionate burden borne by vulnerable populations during heatwave conditions.

For Shahida, summer brings anxiety long before temperatures reach their highest levels. Having spent most of her life living in similar circumstances, she said the arrival of hotter months is accompanied by concerns about health, safety and the wellbeing of her young daughter, Jannat.Throughout the day, the family must manage basic needs while exposed to intense heat.

Access to cold drinking water is limited. They rely in part on a nearby public institution that permits them to fill containers during evening hours, allowing them to store water for later use. The supply, however, remains constrained and dependent on availability.The challenge of securing shelter is equally significant.

According to Indu Prakash Singh, a member of a state-level shelter monitoring committee established by India’s Supreme Court, Delhi faces a substantial shortage of accommodation for homeless residents. He estimates that the city’s shelter capacity falls short of demand by approximately 75%, leaving many families with few alternatives to sleeping outdoors.

Although a women’s night shelter operates less than 200 metres from where Shahida’s family sleeps, she said conditions inside often provide little respite from the heat.“It is even hotter inside than outside,” she said.The concern is echoed by shelter advocates. Singh said many facilities consist of portable cabin-style structures that absorb and retain heat during summer months.

In some locations, cooling systems are insufficient or non-functional, reducing their effectiveness during periods of extreme weather.Conditions inside shelters can also become crowded, particularly during heatwaves when more people seek relief. Reports from facilities in Delhi indicate that access to cooling equipment is often limited, leading to competition among residents for the coolest spaces.As evening approaches and temperatures begin to decline slightly, daily routines continue beneath the flyover.

Families prepare simple meals, organize belongings and make arrangements for the night. Shahida’s family reheats rice and curry cooked earlier in the day before setting up sleeping mats on the pavement.The reduction in temperature after sunset offers only partial relief.

Even at night, the heat remains significant, and concerns about security persist. Women living on the streets frequently report remaining alert long after lying down to sleep, aware of potential risks to themselves and their children.Shahida said rest is often difficult to achieve despite physical exhaustion. The combination of environmental stress, uncertainty and responsibility for a young child creates a constant state of vigilance.

“Even when your eyes close, your mind stays awake. I need to be always protective of myself and my child,” she said.Around her, other families settle in for the night under mosquito nets and makeshift shelters. Some fan children in the humid air while others arrange possessions in an effort to create a small sense of privacy amid the traffic and noise of the city.

Experts increasingly view such experiences as evidence of the broader social consequences of climate change. Rising temperatures, more frequent heatwaves and warmer nights are expected to place additional strain on urban populations, particularly those lacking adequate housing and access to public services.For homeless residents, adaptation options remain limited.

Without permanent shelter, air conditioning or reliable access to cooling infrastructure, exposure to dangerous temperatures becomes an unavoidable feature of daily life.As traffic continues to flow above and around the flyover where she lives, Shahida said her focus remains on caring for her daughter and enduring each day as it comes.

Looking at the child sleeping beneath a mosquito net on the pavement, she described Jannat as the source of her determination to keep going despite the hardships of life on the streets.“Maybe she is the only hope I still hold on to,” Shahida said. “Otherwise, I don’t know what is left.”

On a recent afternoon outside a library in Kashmir, a brief exchange between a student preparing for one of India’s most competitive examinations and three migrant balloon sellers from Rajasthan offered a quiet illustration of the economic realities that continue to drive internal migration across the country.

The scene unfolded near the library entrance, where three young men sat beside a cluster of balloons they were attempting to sell. Their presence was not unusual. Seasonal and temporary migration from economically vulnerable regions to other parts of India remains a common livelihood strategy for thousands of families seeking work opportunities unavailable in their home districts.

Among those leaving the library that day was Fawad, a student preparing for the National Eligibility cum Entrance Test (NEET), the entrance examination for medical education in India. According to witnesses present at the scene, Fawad paused after noticing the three balloon sellers and began speaking with them.

The conversation initially appeared routine. Fawad asked the young men where they had come from and how long they had been in Kashmir. The sellers responded that they had travelled from Rajasthan in search of income opportunities. They described economic hardship, limited resources and difficult living conditions as factors that had pushed them to leave home and seek work elsewhere.

The interaction drew attention because Fawad showed interest in their circumstances beyond a simple commercial transaction. Although he had no apparent need for balloons, he asked to purchase three of them. Witnesses said he paid more than the asking price and encouraged the young men to use the additional money to buy food.

From a purely financial perspective, the amount involved was modest. Yet the exchange highlighted a larger question about how individuals respond to visible signs of economic vulnerability in public spaces.

After the sellers left, an observer who had watched the interaction asked Fawad why he felt compelled to help strangers he did not know.His response was measured rather than sentimental.

“I am relatively well off,” he said. “I can skip one meal. They struggle for every meal. The matter is not always hunger.”

The remark shifted the discussion away from charity alone and toward a broader consideration of economic insecurity. For many informal workers, particularly migrants engaged in street vending and seasonal employment, the challenge extends beyond immediate food needs. Income uncertainty affects access to shelter, healthcare, education and social mobility. Small disruptions in earnings can have disproportionate consequences.

India’s internal migration patterns have long reflected these realities. Workers frequently move across states in search of seasonal employment in construction, agriculture, tourism, retail trade and informal services. Street vending, including the sale of balloons, toys and other low-cost items, often requires little capital investment but offers highly unpredictable earnings.

Daily income can depend on weather conditions, tourist activity, local demand and competition.The encounter in Kashmir illustrated these dynamics at an individual level. The three balloon sellers were not engaged in a formal employment arrangement. Their livelihood depended on persuading passers-by to purchase inexpensive products, making every interaction a potential source of income.

The image of brightly coloured balloons against the backdrop of economic hardship also carries a symbolic dimension that has long appeared in South Asian literature and poetry.

Balloons are often associated with celebration, childhood and temporary joy.

Yet their existence is inherently fragile, lasting only as long as the air within them remains contained.

That contrast finds resonance in a famous couplet by the eighteenth-century Urdu poet Mir Taqi Mir:

“Hasti apni hubab ki si hai,

Ye numaish saraab ki si hai.”

A commonly accepted English rendering is:

“Our existence is like a bubble;This spectacle of life is like a mirage.”

The couplet reflects Mir’s recurring meditation on impermanence. A bubble appears briefly before disappearing. A mirage seems real from a distance but vanishes upon closer examination. Together, the images suggest the transient nature of worldly status, possessions and human circumstances.

Viewed through that lens, the encounter between the student and the balloon sellers acquires a wider significance. The balloons themselves become a metaphor for lives shaped by uncertainty. Economic security, educational opportunity and social standing often appear stable, yet they can be fragile and unevenly distributed.

Fawad’s decision to buy three balloons did not alter the structural conditions that had brought the sellers from Rajasthan to Kashmir. Nor did it address the broader economic factors influencing migration and informal labour. What it did reveal was an awareness of the asymmetry between those who can absorb temporary hardship and those whose daily survival depends on continuous earnings.

The transaction lasted only a few minutes. The balloons changed hands, a small amount of money was exchanged, and the sellers continued on their route. Yet the conversation that accompanied the purchase left a stronger impression than the sale itself.

In public discussions about poverty, attention often focuses on statistics, government programmes and economic indicators. Those measures remain essential for understanding the scale of deprivation. At the same time, individual encounters continue to shape how people perceive inequality in everyday life.

Outside the library that day, three migrant balloon sellers were attempting to earn a living far from home. A student preparing for a future in medicine paused long enough to ask where they had come from and why.

The answers were simple: poverty, migration and the search for opportunity. The response was equally simple: the purchase of three balloons and a recognition that need is not measured solely by hunger, but also by the human desire to be seen.

Brazilian Indigenous leader, writer and environmental thinker Ailton Krenak has spent decades challenging dominant political and economic assumptions in Brazil, arguing that modern consumer-driven society has severed humanity’s relationship with nature while deepening social inequality and ecological destruction.

Nearly four decades after a landmark appearance before Brazil’s constitutional assembly helped secure Indigenous rights protections in the country’s democratic constitution, Krenak has emerged as one of the country’s most influential public intellectuals, combining environmental criticism, Indigenous cosmology and political activism in lectures and bestselling books translated into more than 13 languages.

Krenak, 72, first gained national prominence in 1987 during the drafting of Brazil’s post-dictatorship constitution. Addressing lawmakers in Brasília while wearing a suit and tie, he slowly covered his face with black jenipapo dye, traditionally used in Indigenous body painting, as he condemned centuries of violence against Indigenous communities.“Indigenous blood has been spilt over every hectare of Brazil’s 8m square kilometres,” he told legislators at the time.

The gesture became one of the defining images of Brazil’s democratic transition and contributed to the inclusion of constitutional protections recognising Indigenous peoples’ rights to their traditional lands, social organisation and cultural identity under the 1988 constitution.Reflecting on the speech nearly 40 years later, Krenak described congress as a place where political power was concentrated through language and public speech.

“There, the young Ailton understood the meaning of parliament,” he said. “The place to speak, the power of the word.”In 2024, Krenak entered another historically exclusive institution when he became the first Indigenous Brazilian elected to the Brazilian Academy of Letters, an organisation founded in the 19th century and traditionally dominated by white intellectual elites.

At his inauguration ceremony, Krenak used the occasion to highlight Brazil’s Indigenous diversity, invoking dozens of Indigenous peoples while wearing the academy’s formal embroidered uniform alongside Indigenous adornments.“I am only one, but I can invoke 305 peoples,” he said.Krenak’s growing international influence has been driven largely by a series of books focused on environmental degradation, capitalism and the relationship between humanity and the natural world.

His 2020 book Ideas to Postpone the End of the World became a major commercial and intellectual success in Brazil and abroad, later followed by Life Is Not Useful and Ancestral Future.Across his writing and public lectures, Krenak argues that modern societies have normalised environmental destruction through economic systems centered on consumption and extraction.

“We are treading heavily on the Earth,” he said during a recent lecture in Rio de Janeiro. “Modernity is very active in making us consumers but leaves little time and space to coexist.”Krenak frequently frames environmental collapse not only as a scientific or political issue but also as a cultural and spiritual crisis. He criticises what he describes as a model of development that treats nature exclusively as a resource for economic growth.

“Development is not an innocent word,” he said. “It fires a shot at someone.”Despite the severity of his message, Krenak often delivers lectures with humour and conversational ease. During one recent appearance, he abruptly interrupted his own discussion of social exclusion and environmental decline by joking that the audience had “fallen into a trap” after expecting a more uplifting talk about dreams and creativity.

Friends and observers frequently describe his public speaking style as calm and accessible despite the radical nature of many of his arguments.Born in 1953 in Minas Gerais state, Krenak belongs to the Krenak people, whose ancestral territory lies along the Doce River in southeastern Brazil.

He recalls spending his childhood surrounded by forests, rivers and open land before military-era land seizures displaced his community.During Brazil’s military dictatorship, authorities fragmented Krenak territory and redistributed land titles to farmers, forcing Indigenous families to flee repeatedly.“It’s a bodily experience of being in a world with no risks,” Krenak said of his early childhood.

“Then suddenly you are warned by adults that you must run away.”His family eventually fled through several regions of Brazil, at times living along highways while searching for safety.“I remember the feeling of being on the run, of not knowing if we’d find a safe place to sleep,” he said.

Krenak has often linked those experiences of displacement to broader historical patterns affecting Indigenous communities and diasporic populations. He argues that Brazilian society lacks a shared historical memory because different groups experienced the country’s development through profoundly unequal realities.

“We are not equal,” he said. “We don’t have a shared memory of history in Brazil.”After relocating to São Paulo and Paraná, Krenak became involved in organising Indigenous political movements and media initiatives. He helped establish an Indigenous newspaper at São Paulo’s Pontifical Catholic University, later transforming it into audio bulletins distributed to Indigenous villages on cassette tapes and eventually into a radio programme.

In 1980, he co-founded the Union of Indigenous Nations, which became a major voice in Brazil’s Indigenous rights movement during the democratic transition.Krenak’s environmental advocacy was further shaped by the 2015 Mariana mining disaster, one of Brazil’s worst environmental catastrophes.

The collapse of a tailings dam owned by mining companies Vale and BHP Billiton destroyed villages and released toxic waste across hundreds of miles of the Doce River basin.For the Krenak people, the river is regarded as a sacred ancestor known as Watu.Ten years after the disaster, Krenak said the river remains deeply damaged.“To declare it dead would be giving up,” he said, describing the river instead as being “in a coma”.

Krenak continues to argue that Indigenous knowledge systems offer alternatives to economic models based solely on extraction and consumption.

He says modern societies must reconsider assumptions about progress, ownership and humanity’s place within nature.“If I can imagine a utopia,” he said, “it is for humans to recover the experience of a simple life.”

At the edge of Cancún in the Mexican state of Quintana Roo, a high-security penitentiary known as Cereso stands behind barbed wire, watchtowers and military surveillance.

The complex houses both male inmates and a separate women’s section known as Modulo 2, where 284 women are currently held.Daily life inside follows a rigid routine. Time is structured around chores, workshops and administrative schedules, with little variation.

Movement is controlled, and activities are closely supervised, reflecting a system designed to impose order and predictability.Until recently, however, the prison operated under markedly different conditions. Just two years ago, Cereso was widely regarded as one of the most dangerous facilities in Mexico.

According to accounts from within the system, male inmates exerted significant control, while a shortage of guards undermined basic security and oversight.In response, the government of Quintana Roo intervened with the backing of the army, installing new leadership and reasserting institutional control.

The facility has since undergone extensive renovation, with upgraded infrastructure and a shift in administrative approach.

Under the new administration, the prison has introduced a framework centred on rehabilitation. Mental health support has become a key component of this approach, particularly within the women’s wing. Six psychologists are assigned to Modulo 2, providing regular counselling and psychosocial workshops aimed at preparing inmates for eventual reintegration into society.

Officials have structured programmes to address behavioural, emotional and social challenges faced by inmates, many of whom come from backgrounds marked by poverty, marginalisation and unstable living conditions.

These factors, while not excusing criminal conduct, are frequently cited by prison authorities as shaping the trajectories that led many women into the justice system.Within the facility, six women have given birth during their incarceration.

Their children are allowed to remain with them until the age of three, after which custody is transferred to relatives. A designated area for mothers and young children has been adapted to include play spaces and child-friendly features, though it remains firmly within the confines of a controlled prison environment.

The population of Modulo 2 reflects the broader dynamics of Mexico’s criminal justice system. Many inmates have been convicted of serious offences, including human trafficking, sexual exploitation, drug-related crimes and, in some cases, murder.

At the same time, a significant number remain in pre-trial detention, sometimes for extended periods lasting several years. The judicial system in Mexico has faced criticism for delays, particularly following the adoption of stricter criminal policies that have increased reliance on detention before trial.

While legal frameworks do not formally differentiate between men and women in sentencing, inmates and observers point to gender-specific challenges. Social and family circumstances are often cited in proceedings, and women may face forms of discrimination linked to their roles within households and communities.

Those awaiting trial frequently maintain their innocence, underscoring the uncertainty that accompanies prolonged detention.

Despite the restrictive environment, moments of personal expression continue to emerge within Modulo 2. A photography project named after the women’s wing documents how inmates assert a sense of identity through small, regulated acts such as applying makeup, styling hair or grooming nails.

Access to beauty products is limited and tightly controlled, available only during designated periods under supervision. Yet these brief intervals alter the atmosphere within the facility. Participants adopt more confident postures, engage more openly and, in some cases, reveal aspects of themselves that remain otherwise concealed.

For some inmates, these acts carry particular significance. Blanca, who is serving a 54-year sentence, the longest in the facility, learned to read and write during her time in prison. She has filled notebooks with handwritten reflections and drawings, including a song she composed titled “mi último lugar,” or “my last place,” which she describes as a meditation on a life trajectory reshaped by incarceration.

Observers involved in the project say such expressions do not diminish the seriousness of the crimes committed or the structural inequalities embedded in the penal system. Instead, they highlight the complexity of life inside prison, where discipline and control coexist with resilience, creativity and interpersonal connection.

While prisons in Mexico are often associated with overcrowding and violence, conditions vary across regions. Cereso, following its restructuring, presents a more controlled environment, though challenges remain.

Sentences are lengthy, oversight is constant and opportunities are limited.Within these constraints, inmates continue to form bonds, share experiences and, at times, reclaim elements of their identity.

The resulting portrait is neither one of redemption nor condemnation, but of a system in transition and the individuals navigating its boundaries.