Destinations :: North-East :: Arunachal Pradesh :: Bomdila (1988)

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A mist covered street of Bomdila

Arunachal Pradesh was one of the six states that were in my jurisdiction in the North-East Circle. On the map it looked formidable sprawling from Bhutan in the West to Myanmar in the East with the hostile Chinese breathing down fire and brimstone from the North. It is known as the Land of the Rising Sun as the first rays of the Sun received in the country are in the peaks of this State.

 It had at that time only 11 districts which have since been increased to sixteen by carving out new districts from old, presumably, unmanageably large districts. The state is perhaps the most diverse in all its attributes – of people as it is a melting pot of

Bomdila Circuit House

numerous tribes, or climate, as it varies from tropical in the lower latitudes to Alpine in higher latitudes or flora and fauna that change from tropical to temperate making it one of the most bio-diverse of states. Among the flora orchids are dominant with 150 species and that is how it is known as the Orchid State of India. With its massive spread and difficult accesses none could possibly cover the entire state in a tenure of two years. I, therefore settled for limited forays into the state starting off with Bomdila, a generally known place from the time of the Chinese hostile incursions of 1962.

Getting set for a visit to Bomdila we equipped ourselves with enough of woollens. It was October and was going to be cold, especially if it happened to rain. We had to go to Gwahati and on to Tezpur. At

Bomdila

Tezpur we stayed in that fabulous circuit house that overlooked the massive River Brahmaputra. It was after the monsoons and the river was up to its brim. From the Circuit House it appeared like a huge sheet of water – almost like a sea, as the opposite bank was not visible. Incidentally, Tezpur had come under threat during the Chinese War in 1962. There was panic in the city after Nehru’s speech in Parliament that his heart went out to people of Assam. People started moving out and in the government treasury cash was reportedly burnt.

The Chinese had hit the plains of Assam at Bhalukpong where we

Dirang from the highway

reached the next morning after going across the Tezpur Bridge. Bhalukpong is located on the banks of the Kameng River and is now known for river rafting and angling. But what I remember most vividly is the Nair Mess there where we had finest of sambhars we had ever had with lovely dosas. It was an unlikely place for the Nairs to be, as it was far away from their native land. It reminded me of Baramula in Kashmir where close to it there was a Nair Mess where I had delectable hot vadais. Here we enjoyed the dosas after our “inner line”

Another view of Dirang

permits were checked. This is the place from where one can enter Arunachal only if one possesses an Inner Line permit. At least that is what the position was as I remember it. And thi is also the from where the Chinese went back for reasons best known to them.

Bomdila is 100 kms away from Bhalukpong but the road throughout is mountainous. Bomdila’s elevation is more than 8000 ft. One had, therefore, to climb from around 600 ft to 8000 ft in a matter of 60 miles. As we started to climb the vegetation appeared to be changing

Dirang River

progressively. There were huge plantain leaves that hung over the road. We were told that the plantains of these trees were edible, but only for the elephants. Soon we came across a warning board asking every passerby to beware of wild elephants. Apparently the jungles on both sides of the road still harboured wild elephants. As we went further up we were engulfed in thick fog that continued for a few miles. The fog seems to be a regular feature as there was a warning about it before we came upon it. I think at around 6000 ft the fog cleared up, somewhere up close to Tenga Valley. From there Bomdila was around two hours away.

Bomdila is a very pretty little hill station at an elevation that is more than 8000 ft. It is the head quarter of the West Kameng District but is very sparsely populated. Basically it is a tribal town where Mompas

Another view of Dirang River

dominate. It has a good market and we found a lot of beautiful Chinese and Korean crockery being sold quite openly. Obviously there is pretty good traffic between Arunachal and Tibet. Climatically it is very good particularly in the month of October when we visited. It should be very cold in December and January.

Bomdila is on the way to Tawang which is coveted by Chinese. We had, however, no intentions of visiting Tawang as the journey is very time-taking. We instead went about 30 kms on that road up to Dirang. Dirang is a beautiful little place with a 500 years old Gompa. The views that one gets from Dirang are fabulous.

As the weather was getting adverse we decided to leave Bomdila as were up against the prospects of going downhill on a treacherous mountain road. We safely came down to Bhalukpong and headed towards Guwahati. One couldn’t possibly travel over bad and bouncy roads for seven days at a stretch. Hence we came back to the comfort of our home at Shillong to rest our tired bodies.

Bhopal Notes ::66 :: Repair of Ridge Road

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A few weeks back when I was bed-ridden a friend called to invite me for  the “bhoomi pujan” that was being conducted to signal commencement of the work of re-laying the Ridge Road. My wife, who received the call, informed the friend that as I was under advice of complete bed-rest I couldn’t possibly attend the puja.

Next day we were told that there was no “bhumi puja” as the municipal officials said that the road could not be built now as it would have to be dug up to create a trench for the Narmada water pipe line. We have been hearing of the Narmada water pipe line for long but all these years there has been no sign of it. Perhaps it was a ruse again by the municipality for not taking up the work. It was perhaps well and good that the road work was not taken up as the same day the Monsoon arrived with a bang. There were heavy rains for which Bhopal was waiting all through the summer.

I was, however wondering whether the Narbada waters should at all be brought all the way up to the Idgah Hills. . According to my knowledge 90% of the houses and other establishments on the Idgah Hills are supplied water from the Upper Lake. If the Narmada Waters could be brought to the Upper Lake and allowed to flow into it the problem of shortage of water in the Idgah Hills area would be taken care of. Besides, the heavy expenditure of digging a trench up the hill would not be necessary. The lines that already exist would surely be able to carry the water to the households and other establishments.

Another advantage would be that the Upper Lake would never be short of water and, in all probability, the water crises that occur every summer could be avoided. The municipality supplies water to far flung areas by tankers and that progressively depletes the quantum of water in the Lake and on occasions, therefore, the supplies are discontinued. The chances of that happening would also be obviated. What is more, the construction of the Ridge Road after almost 10 years could be commenced soon after the Monsoon withdraws.

But I think the vested interests wouldn’t allow that to happen. There is a lot of money involved in trenching and laying the pipeline. Even the purchase of pipes and the joints take quite a bit and a cut from them is at stake. The municipal engineers always desire more and more of civil work. To expect them to cut down on supposedly sanctioned works is futile. Nonetheless, they could perhaps examine the matter from this new angle

Memories of an ordinary Indian :: 18 :: DAV School

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After clearing the Class VI exams I was taken off the Sarafa School and admitted in the local DAV School. It too was in the midst of a bazaar but it was enclosed from all sides and a massive gate would only allow access to the school. Once the school commenced the gate would be shut and we wouldn’t know what was happening outside in the bazaar. Inside the school the main building was located after a huge open space. There were some class rooms on top of the gate where three classes – class VI, class VII and class VIII used to be held.

None was allowed to go out of the school premises during the recess. Children – we were all children at that age – would play whatever games that could possibly be played in that enclosed space. I do not remember whether we of the senior classes played any games; what I remember is the noise that would be raised by shrieking and screaming children of the lower classes. It was virtually pandemonium. One must give it to the School administration; they never came out to shout at the children for those high decibels that were raised by them. Perhaps, they realized that as the children couldn’t go out they had to have some place to play and use up their energy.

A boys’ school, DAV school was run by Arya Samaj, a Hindu reform movement that promotes values and beliefs of Vedas that they think are infallible. In the school, however, I never came across any event that promoted the Arya Samaj philosophy barring the Hawan that was conducted first thing before the classes every morning. Close to the main building there was a small temple-like structure in which there was a hawan kund, a place for conducting the sacred purifying ritual. It was a square depression on the floor where the fire used to be raised with four people sitting on four sides of the kund pronounced Sanskrit mantras, offering ghee and other objects like sandalwood, honey etc.

Right in front of the temple-like structure there was a long and narrow paved surface on which everyone was supposed to sit. Hawans were where everyone was encouraged to pronounce the Sanskrit mantras loudly. I did not know Sanskrit even one bit, hence I used to only listen but I was never hauled up for this failure. Occasionally, I too was picked up for performing the Hawan and would reluctantly comply. What I did not like about the whole process was the smoke that was raised from the kund and would get into the eyes. But I gradually learnt the Gayatri Mantra: “Om bhurbuvah swaha tatsa virturvarenyam bhargo devasya dhee mahi diyo yonah prachodayat swaha“. Having repeated it numerous times during those two years at the DAV school it seems to have sunk deep into my consciousness - so much so that I can repeat it even now after almost seven decades. Some say it was formulated by Vishwamitra and I have heard some saying it was conceived in the Bamiyan Valley of Afghanistan. Whatever might be the truth it is reckoned as the seed mantra from the Rig Veda and Gayatri is the Vedic metre in which it was composed.

DAV was one of the very few private schools in the town of those days. I do not remember any Christian missionary school being there at Gwalior. Miss Hill’s School was not a missionary school. It was opened by an American who later migrated back to her home town and occasionally would send some money. It was a good school and children of middle or upper class families used to study there. The DAV could be called a Hindu missionary school but there was no proselytisng although Arya Samaj was free to proselytise to bring non-Hindus to the Hindu fold.

Be that as it may, the DAV had good teaching standards. I still remember the names of a few teachers who made a deep impression on me. There was Vasant Singh who used to teach Geography, Bharat Bhushan Tyagi who used to teach Hindi and was bit of a Hindi chauvinist; English used to be taught by the Headmaster Ravindra Singh himself and Arithmetic by Seva Ram Choube, our own private tutor. Seva Ram-ji had to leave when I was in Class VIII as he was selected for appointment in the Government High School which I had to join later at class IX. I still remember how he shed copious tears when we gave him a farewell party in which he was gifted with stainless steel utensils. Stainless steel was uncommon in those days and was unaffordable by middle class families. Seva Ram-ji proved his mettle as he distinguished himself as a teacher and was deputed to the United States by the Government of India in an exchange programme of teachers.

The Class VIII was considered a watershed in the careers of many students. We in Gwalior had a board examination that was conducted by the Board of Secondary Education of Gwalior State and later by the Madhya Bharat Government after independence. It was a tough examination and many a bright boy faced his moment of truth and for many of lesser means it used to prove the end of their educational career. The board examination was later done away with as two years later one had to appear at the Matriculation Examination which, I presume, is now called Higher Secondary Examination.

In the DAV I picked up  some very good friends one of whom remained a friend for long years. Others I somehow lost touch with but one of them I met up with in Washington DC in 1998. He was a senior official in the US Commerce & Diplomatic Service. He made us stay with him and one morning took us out on a trip around Washington, topping it up with a lunch in one of his favourite restaurants in Alexandria, Georgia.

I knew I was not a brilliant boy but I did reasonably well in Middle Board Examination fetching a II Division. Having done the Middle Board I was now ripe for Matriculation, the exam for which used to be very tough. But for appearing at that I had to move over to the Victoria Collegiate High School on the outskirts of the town and spend another 2 years there.

Destinations :: North-East :: Churachandpur, Manipur (1989)

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Charade in Churachandpur*

F

ifty year ago when I left Gwalior on that hot May night for Delhi on way to the National Academy of Administration Churachandpur was, if at all, only a feeble blip on my radar, somewhere from far away – from the general direction of North-East. The region was so fuzzy in my consciousness that I couldn’t have put my finger on the place on an atlas and, what’s more, wouldn’t have been able to tell a Mizo from a Khasi or a Naga. It was only when in that summer of 1961 I met in the Academy fellow-trainees – Rominthanga, James Michael Lyngdoh, Thang Khuma Tocchawng and many others – that I became familiar with the region and the people who inhabited it.

The last named, Tocchawng (unfortunately, no longer around), became a very good friend right in the Academy and also, incidentally, a (Indian Postal) Service-mate when the services were allotted. He was of Mizo parentage, though was virtually a Khasi having spent most of his early years in Shillong, the most cosmopolitan of North-Eastern towns. Endowed with a mobile visage, he was urbane to a fault and was an excellent companion. Having travelled outside his native regions, he could speak a smattering of Hindi that enabled him to mix around easily with those in the batch as well as in the Service. At Saharanpur, during professional training at the Training Centre we played a lot of tennis and badminton together. After the games he would regale us with those 1950’s mushy, romantic Nat King Cole numbers that continued to top popularity charts even in the ‘60s. He didn’t have that “incandescent” voice “King Cole” was known for but it was good and deep and he sang really well.  Among his favourites were “Mona Lisa”, “Love is a many splendoured thing” and “Rambling rose,” all of which were (and even today are) my favourites.

Over time, as we went to hold field jobs in different states, the link between us became a little tenuous, but the warmth endured. Telephone calls, though few and far between, strived to keep the relationship alive. At the middle level of our respective careers both of us happened to converge at our departmental headquarters in Delhi, making the old ties once again vibrant.

Years later, when we had made it to the Senior Administrative Grade, it was he who informed me of my posting to Shillong even before the regular orders arrived. I was to replace him as the chief of the departmental outfit there. Around the late 1980s Shillong was considered a bad posting for a non-tribal, more so for a Bengali. Thoroughly refined as he was, Tocchawng was quick to commiserate with me, assuring me that I would not find it problematic as, he said, “I was not that kind of a Bengali” – knowing as he did that I was offspring of a Bengali who had migrated out of Bengal long years ago. Nonetheless, I was at once reminded of Jimmy Lyngdoh once jokingly asking me in the Academy, “You’re not from Sylhet, are you?” Sylhet, now in Bangladesh, is only 60 miles away from the border town of Jowai in Jayantia Hills. Apparently, most of the Bengalis settled in Shillong hailed from those parts and, I suspect, for the ‘qualities’ of their head and heart, were thoroughly disliked by the locals.

Having heard so much about Shillong from friends, acquaintances and seniors in the Service I looked forward to the posting though it was a transfer that took me from the Western coast of the country to virtually India’s far eastern end. Shillong was indeed a different world, easily one of the finest of the places I ever worked in. I had six of the seven north-eastern states in my jurisdiction, each different from the other. I had necessarily to travel a lot and that was time consuming, distances being long and roads mostly wretched.

One such trip took me to Manipur. At Imphal, one day finding myself free, I decided to take in Churachandpur, a district town to the south-west about three hours away by a rather bad road. Throughout my career I have had this penchant for visiting out-of-the-way units, situated whether among the snow-laden conifers on the heights of Kashmir or within coconut groves in the depths of Konkan, which were hardly ever frequented by inspecting officers. Accompanied by the local director and an inspector fluent in Manipuri we decided to surprise our unit there.

Churachandpur was like the usual run of small towns, inhabited predominantly by Mizos, perhaps because it was close to the state’s border with Mizoram. While driving down the bouncy road, curiously, I was surprised to see Mizo women walking about wearing fancy and delicate footwear despite the road’s terrible condition. Somewhat gratuitously, I thought to myself that shoe-menders had for them a great market in the town.

Finding the departmental unit doing well we turned back for Imphal. On our way back we came across a wayside part-time post office and walked in to check out its operations. The postmaster, an elderly Mizo, was assisted by his two young daughters, all looking very vague and deadpan, wearing typical poker faces. While the father answered all the questions the daughters looked for and produced all the documents. The Q&A was, however, three cornered as all of them were ignorant of both English and Hindi. The inspector did the job of an interpreter. It was a torturous process lasting about a couple of hours.

Everything seemed to be hunky dory. We prepared to leave and as I conveyed our appreciation to the postmaster for his good work I saw for the first time a faint flicker of emotion on his face. Soon, he visibly relaxed. Thawing, his eyes brightened and his gait changed noticeably. A bit of new life seemed to have been infused into him. Quickly shuffling across from a respectable distance he had all through maintained he came closer and asked “Sir, where is Mr. Tocchawng these days?”

Aghast, we were all rendered speechless. The man spoke faultless English – after feigning ignorance of the language for all of two torturous hours. Seeing the shock on our faces the father and the daughters burst into uncontrolled laughter. Even the two daughters were fluent in English having been educated in a Christian missionary school.

It was unbelievable – an incredible charade played out with consummate artistry by each of the three protagonists without so much as even a hint of a flap. The director progressively became crimson with the rage that built up within him but somehow did not go ballistic. Seeing the family having a good hearty laugh I couldn’t help grinning – marvelling at the facile ease with which a part-timer with two of his young off-shoots in a remote Manipur village made suckers of as many as three of his departmental seniors.   

*This was initially published in The Pioneer. Later it was also published in the souvenir brought out on the occasion of the Silver Jubilee celebrations of the 1961 Civil Services batch

Destinations :: North-East :: Kohima & Manipur (1989)

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A view of part of the town of Kohima

We had two options to approach Imphal from Guwahati. One was to go via Silchar and the other was to go via Guwahati and Kohima in Nagaland. The driver was reluctant to take the route via Silchar as, he said, it had the disturbed area of Tamenglong on the way. It is the westernmost district of Manipur with Assam on its western flank. True, that area of Manipur had been disturbed for quite some time with rebel activities and they did not quite like outsiders. We naturally chose to take the other option and travel via Guwahati.

So we headed towards Guwahati from where we took the highway on

A street in Kohima

the northern bank of Brahmaputra to travel to Kohima in Nagaland. It was only around 400 kilometres but was likely to take more time because of bad roads. Nonetheless, it was interesting as we got to see some wildlife including rhinos of Kazi Ranga feeding close to the highway. The road passes through some thick jungles before one reaches Kohima.

Kohima is today the capital of Nagaland but it is historically very important. It was here that a very important battle of the World War II was fought. It was a very bitter battle with hand to hand fights on the heights of the Kohima Ridge where the Kohima Collector’s bungalow was located. While the Japanese made a determined push the British threw into the battles all that they had, eventually succeeding to force the Japanese to retreat. Both the sides saw Kohima as very important as a foothold here would have provided the Japanese access to the railhead of Dimapur about 40 miles away

View from the historical road to Imphal from Kohima

and the British decided to deny that to the Japanese at any cost. The cost was very heavy as the Collector’s tennis court acquired the likeness of a meteorite-hit site with burnt out vegetation and human bodies.

One does not know how Kohima looked like in 1944 when Japanese had occupied large parts of the town but when I visited it more than a quarter century ago it was a beautiful hill town, green and sparsely populated. Staying at an elevation where the circuit house was located when I looked out it appeared attractive with its undulations and lovely conical-top houses. I believe it has now developed beyond

The cros with the evocative epitaph

imagination. What is more important perhaps is that shedding their insularity the Naga people are now making forays out into the country. We saw a Naga troupe giving beautiful dance performances in the Museum of Man in Bhopal.

I suppose the only place worth visiting in Kohima at that time was the War Cemetery. Maintained by the Commonwealth War Graves Commission, the Cemetery is dedicated to the soldiers of the 2^nd British

My wife Bandana at the War Cemetery

Division of the Allied Forces who died at Kohima. According to the Graves Commission, about 1429 soldiers are buried here and it also has a memorial for about 900 Hindu and Sikh soldiers who died in the battles and were cremated according to their religious rights. It is a beautifully maintained place that exudes its sombre ambience.

The Cemetery is located exactly at the place where the battle was fought i.e at the tennis courts of the Deputy Commissioner’s bungalow between two ridges. The place offers a panoramic view of Kohima town. Two memorial crosses – one at the upper end and the other at

A temple at Bishnupur on way to Moirang

the lower end are important. The one at the upper end commemorates the Indian soldiers who laid down their life. It carries the epitaph: “Here… lie men who fought in the battle of Kohima in which they and their comrades finally halted the invasion of India by the forces of Japan in 1944”. The lower end memorial, dedicated to soldiers of the British 2nd Division also carries an epitaph that is more evocative which says :

“When you go home tell them of us and say for your tomorrow we gave our today”

Next day we travelled on the historic Kohima- Imphal road. Here at several places placards have been put up indicating the battles that took place there as the British Army pursued the retreating Japanese

A  part of the Women's market

Imperial Army. It was very interesting. The road was good up to Mao, the last town of Nagaland at its border with Manipur. As soon as we crossed into Manipur, more specifically its Senapati District, we came up against nightmarish conditions. Un-tarred and probably never attended to, presumably, since the Allied Forces left the area about forty five years ago, and to say that it was bouncy would be an understatement. It was bone-rattling, stomach churning and what have you. I have never had such a drive anywhere in the country, including in Ladakh. It took more

Netaji's statue at Moirang

than four hours of grueling drive for us to reach the level grounds of Imphal. I am sure if the road conditions were somewhat like this when Japanese retreated perhaps more soldiers would have died of exhaustion than by being hit by bullets.

Imphal proved to be a pretty small town but was torn by rebellion. Militants were very active and life was not quite secure. I remember when I visited the Imphal head post office I was given normal salutes by armed CRPF men outside the building. Inside the office the salute shook me a bit as it was loud and had kind of bullet-like report. On regaining my composure I realized it was only a salute. But then I noticed CRPF jawans had taken positions elsewhere in the office – positions that they had probably considered to be vantage ones.  From their preparedness it seemed as if an attack by the rebels was imminent. Nothing, however, had happened even after I returned to Shillong but, I presume, they

The stone commemorating hoisting of national flag

had anticipated genuine threat. Apparently they preferred to remain on high alert as the rebels always targetted the Central Government offices/installations.

Having finished whatever work I had to attend to we moved on to Moirang which is around 50 kilometres away in the south. The road was reasonable and it passed through the Bishnupur district. Moirang is important for us Indians as this was the place where the Indian National Army (INA) organized by Netaji Subhash Chandra Bose defeated the British army and hoisted the National Flag. It was here that the first Provisional Government of India was formed and established.

It was described as a small sleepy town when the INA forces came

Loktak Lake

barging in after crossing the treacherous rivers, hills and jungles of Burma. But the battle-weary troops valiantly fought and routed the British detachment to claim the place as liberated. The building that housed the INA headquarters could do well with a repair job, However the spot where the National Flag was hoisted on 14^th April 1944 has a museum which transports one to the days of Second World War and the audacious fight put up by the well-organised band of gutsy but ill-equipped fighters raised by Netaji. There is also a statue of Netaji donated by the Government of West Bengal mounted on a pedestal nearby. It was, I am afraid, pretty disappointing; as it seems to have made Netaji somewhat of a midget. That is my impression and it should not be taken amiss.

Nearby is the Ramsar Site of Loktak Lake which is claimed to be the largest fresh water lake in the North-East. It is a valuable economic resource as it helps in generation of electricity, irrigation and fishing. It has what are known as “phumdis”, a collection of a mass of vegetation soil and organic matter which are so tightly married together that an antelope like Sangai, though endangered, can thrive on them. We too walked on them, of course, not with much ease. The largest “phumdi” is of 40 sq.kms and is the only floating national park in the world. It is known as Kelbu Lamjao National Park.

We also proceeded to Churachandpur, the headquarters of the eponymously named district. The visit to it is another story which will be mounted separately.

"Pothole deaths" - failure of civic bodies

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Even the Supreme Court of India has expressed its concern on the “pothole deaths” in the country and observed that number of deaths due to potholes on the roads is more than deaths due to terrorism. A division bench made the observation and directed the Supreme Court Committee on Road Safety to look into the matter. Terming the situation “frightening” the Bench said that those who die in such accidents should be entitled to compensation. The issue arose before the Bench when it was hearing a matter relating to road safety.

We Indians have lived for long with bad roads and pot holes in them. When we were less developed and hence most of us could not afford a motorized vehicle we never really thought that it mattered much. We would either walk across giving the pot hole a wide berth or cycle past it avoiding its treacherous depths. In lightless nights, which many of our towns suffered from not too long ago, the potholes were actually a kind of nightmare. Many a pedestrian broke his ankle and many a cyclist broke his shoulders by becoming victims of this failure of men building roads for the benefit of the citizens.

One recalls that even in childhood one used to see ads of motorcycles or cars made abroad adding that the product was made for Indian road conditions. One did not know what those conditions were but presumed that they were, if anything, bad. Hence, one was told that the product was made sturdier to withstand an unforeseen shock caused by deceptive surfaces. The tyres, their rims and the shock absorbers could get damaged as also misalignment of the steering system might result. The materials used in manufacturing them had to have a high level of tolerance against such sudden and unanticipated hits. Whether this was done or not by the manufacturers is, of course, another matter.

The fact, however, is that we have lived with pot holes all our lives. Whether in mufussil or in metros pot holes have been a part of our lives. Despite allotment and outlays of crores of rupees for laying and relaying of urban roads there has been no respite from potholes. Even the country’s capital or its financial or electronic capitals, Mumbai and Bengaluru, suffer deeply with the menace of potholes. The newspapers are littered with reports and photographs of splitting roads and pot holes therein but hardly any measure is ever taken to provide relief to the people. Things have come to such a stage that even tyre companies exploit bad roads and pot holes to push their products.

After all what exactly is a pot hole? It has been defined as “a structural failure in the road surface due to water in the underlying soil and the traffic passing over it. Water first weakens the underlying soil, traffic then fatigues and breaks the poorly supported asphalt surface area. Continued traffic action ejects both the asphalt and underling soil material to create a hole in the pavement”. One believes that this results from indifferently made roads without due diligence and use of proper material and technique. Besides, road building in India suffers from utter lack scruples as well as supervision. Most of the road-building agencies wink at use of material of indifferent quality short-changing the government or its various subordinate outfits.

The Indian monsoon is generally blamed for broken down roads all over the country. True, water is an enemy of asphalt and the moment it seeps in it starts eating away the roads from underneath. But, it has been argued, that South-East Asian countries which generally have heavier rains do not face the problem of bad roads as we do. Singapore, for instance, has rains every day – sometimes light and sometimes heavy – but its roads hardly ever deteriorate like ours. Of course, all these countries, barring very few, are run very efficiently and, presumably, the repair work is carried out promptly and competently using modern gadgetry. The commuting public, therefore, never face the danger and/or inconvenience from ever-enlarging pot holes as we do.

It is, therefore, a matter of shame for us that our highest court has had to make an observation on bad roads and the casualties that they have caused. Even the national print media has taken note of it but the authorities that matter do not seem to have blinked. These are mostly the local bodies, the municipal corporations or public works departments of the state governments. Significantly, no chief minister of any of the affected states has ever found time to comment on the daily casualties that are caused on the roads by pot holes or even indifferent road engineering. They probably think that it is a matter to be handled by the municipal authorities and hence refrain from making any observation. In Bhopal, for instance, deaths on the roads are reported daily but the chief minister has never tried to ascertain as to why the citizens, generally children in prime of youth, are dying in such large numbers. Likewise, Bengaluru is another city where death-on-the-roads is very common but the state government has hardly ever taken steps to improve matters. Probably, in this matter the colour of the government is not material.

Everyone knows that the road construction agencies like the public works department of the state governments or the civil construction wings of the municipalities are highly corrupt. It is openly said that only around 60% of the amount sanctioned is spent in road construction and the remaining 40% is eaten up by officials, engineers and elected representatives. No wonder the position of a municipal councilor is highly attractive and a five-year term can bring in immense riches for them. It has been noticed that they not only build multiple palatial houses, they also acquire a fleet of vehicles, generally of SUVs. There is, therefore, so much at stake in a municipal councillor’s post for a petty politician. One can imagine the pickings at higher levels if politicians at the lowest tier of our people’s democracy have such a rich harvest from a single 5-year term.

We claim to be on the way to become a super-power. It would be a shame for a super-power to have such miserable basic essential of civilized life as roads. Mao Tse Tung is reported to have said that If “you want prosperity build roads”. But India’s politicians have failed to adhere to this sensible aphorism. They only treated construction activity as a cash cow and made money for themselves and the party to which they belonged. The Madhya Pradesh chief minister had the audacity to broadcast from US that roads in his state were better than those in America and later his son, an aspiring politician, also came out with a supporting statement. Both seem to have been oblivious of road conditions in the capital city and elsewhere in the state where life and costly assets are lost everyday due to bad roads. The losses, if compiled, could be worth crores making a dent on the country’s GDP.

One doesn’t find any hope for improvement in the foreseeable future as drastic changes in the system are necessary. That is unlikely to happen as the changes would be against the interests of the very agents of change – the politicians. Hence, India is going to wallow in muddy and watery pot holes for quite some time which will continue to take precious lives and destroy private and public assets.

*photo from internet

My brother Bijoy - a tribute

http://www.bagchiblog.blogspot.com

I lost my elder brother the other day. Bijoy was the third brother after my eldest brother and sister. The second brother Ajoy left us more than six years ago

Bijoy was 84 and was doing well till last year. Then his health started failing and yet he put up a brave front. His wife assisted him very ably caring for him all the while. But with one thing or another he had to be repeatedly hospitalized. Of late, Death was seemingly stalking him and made occasional lunges at him. He, however, fought them off. He came out of Septicemia and a pre-dialysis cardiac arrest – conditions serious enough from which very few ever came back. But in his case, every time Death did back off and he came back home. Even after repair of his fractured hip bone he came back and was recovering well when Death, apparently, changed its strategy and decided to cheat. Instead of attacking from the front it came quietly by stealth, crept in at the dead of the night and took him away.

Memories of eighty-odd years came flooding to me. We had been children together and played games together. I remember when father would be playing badminton on the courts of Victoria College at Gwalior both of us would play our own game with an used shuttle cock a little away without a net. We were not tall enough then for a net, anyway. If it became windy we would move into the wide verandahs of the college and play till it became dark. We were active in adolescence, too, and would play in a make-shift court in the neighbourhood. Here elders, father’s former students organised a club for us children and named it “Club de Juvenile”. We would regularly play badminton here.

 In the College he excelled in NCC which virtually became an obsession. His well-starched uniform and highly polished regulation boots had to catch the eyes of the seniors making him the favourite of the Commanding Officer. They had him lead the NCC contingent of the Republic Day parade at Delhi. But on the lighter side, he would excellently mimic his CO, Capt. Gill – complete with the latter’s thick Punjabi accent.

Ever a sports lover, it was billiards that brought him a break after post graduation. A fair amount of finesse acquired in the game brought him to the notice of others in the Jiwaji Club where he used to play. That got him the job in the Gazetteer Unit of the then newly established state of Madhya Pradesh. Once he acquired a foothold, he swung his way up by sheer hard work and exemplary commitment, to head the newly established state tourism office. Post-graduation in history came in handy and he mapped out the tourism potential of the state that has a number of places of historical importance. With his energy and drive, tourism in the state was promoted like never before. Eventually a tourism development corporation, for which he had worked tirelessly, was established to build on further on the solid foundation that he laid. Retiring from the post of Managing Director he ran a consultancy. His expertise on tourism soon fetched him a World Bank assignment that ran for about a couple of years.

Basically, extrovert, affable and genial as he was, he was surrounded by friends who would make everyone laugh. I recall those early days in Bhopal around late 1950s when the Medical College was yet to come up and there was the Bhopal Club still on top of the hill where the College has now come up. Peals of laughter would be heard at even the tennis court when he and his friends would play billiards. That club was an obsession with him and he couldn’t stay away from it in the evenings. Even in the driving rain of Bhopal in the peak of the monsoon he would don his raincoat, sit astride his Vespa drive up to the club unmindful of the risks on the roads.

Bhopal was his “karmasthana”* for more than sixty years where he devoted himself to work and where his genius flowered. Here he got married to a beautiful devoted wife who gave him a brilliant son. Bhopal is where he found fulfillment in life and in the midst of laughter and happiness he quietly left it – at dead of one beastly night.

Au revoir, my beloved brother! Go and rest in peace.