The balmy gale that was lashing at me, trying to throw me, became a full-blown storm now. Motorcycling toward Delhi along the NH1, I was the only one on the road. Everyone else seemed to have scuttled to the safety of dhabas, parked beneath juddering awnings, huddled inside maybe over chole bhatura and lassi waiting it out.  There was no way I could have seen it coming. Nor heard. There was nary a whistle nor a rustle. There was no dry duff flying around. But for that you need some