India’s road to nowhere
My annual sojourn to the backwaters of Himachal led me from wonderment to consternation to frustration to reconcilement — all in a matter of just seven days. The 12-hour journey from the national Capital to the core of Kangra could well define the journey through unvisited, uncared for India, an India which exists in a vacuum and from where it is still another life away from development.
Since this one is about travel, one will have to naturally dwell on the road network of our country. To call it a mess would be an understatement. Right from the outside of Delhi, the anger starts to rise, as does the idling petrol bill of your vehicle. If it is hyper, unending construction of either a highway or a superhighway or whatever that takes your goat, time and money half way to Chandigarh, it is the complete breakdown of the network from thereon.
The potholes, gaping like crocodiles on a hunt start just outside of Ropar, though in patches there are stretches of a toll road in construction. The total toll tax we paid from Delhi to Una was close to Rs 300. The distance we covered was 500 km. The time we took was 13 hours! This means, 61 years after our tryst with destiny, we are able to travel into our own country at a dismal speed of less than 50 km an hour.
One wonders where all the money and schemes for road building in India goes. If one were to visit the insides of Himachal, one would call it a boon to be in Madhya Pradesh where roads are legendary for their broken down, un-traversable state.
Himachal, at least the un-touristy parts of it, is in a pitiable condition. As we progressed from Ropar, we were hit by potholes, which escorted us to our near death experience. For most part of the journey we were airborne in our car, instead of being on the seat. After Una, the condition worsened. Potholes increased to their maximum, compelling us to stop at short intervals and placate our protesting bones and car tyres.
Then came the kuchcha patch, which was apparently under construction, bringing some hope for the future in us. As we remarked, “At least there is some construction that is on,” our elder told us rather casually that the stretch had been in a similar state for close to 40 years now. He had, for the first time, come to this area to see the first blasts of dynamite, which had been used to blast away the mountains to make way for the far-in villagers.
Some kilometers ahead, the kuchcha road also started tapering off, that too on an uphill tract. From here on there were just big and small boulders which were looking like a pathway. The car slipped and skidded a thousand times before we reached our destination where any resemblance to a road gave up all pretense of existing. From hereon, there are only padyatras. The locals do that well, going on foot to villages far, far away. The visitors, however little, prefer to return from here.
If roads are dismal, the social attitude still exists in the primitive zone. Yes, they are simple villagers who work hard for every grain they grow. Yes, they are a populace which is more self-sufficient than us urbanites who need everything from maids to psychiatrists for running our lives. But harsh realities exist in these villages too.
Primary among them is the anti-woman syndrome which grips one and all — women hate to give birth to a girl more than perhaps the men would mind. That is surprising, considering that Himachali women, as a matter of official statistic, are more educated than their men. MAs, MScs, PhDs abound here, even in villages. Even in this visit I came across a dusvi fail man bringing home an MSc bride. No one really minded that, not even the bride and her parents. And while partaking of the marriage lunch, I was stunned to hear from a young married woman that she would not pass me a green chilly as that might lead to me giving birth to a girl. That this would be a horror worse than slow death was quite evident on her face. She, like all others, seemed to be otherwise quite a balanced person, taking care of the home, of her child’s studies and also the monthly budget of the entire household.
More on this in my next column. But just to sign off, the women of this region have a presiding deity by whom they all swear — He is a God who bars women from entering his cave. They have to go to a supporting mount opposite the deity’s high perch to pay their obeisance. Ask them why would they worship someone so anti-woman and they are all ready to burn you at the stakes — of course, without an explanation!
Since this one is about travel, one will have to naturally dwell on the road network of our country. To call it a mess would be an understatement. Right from the outside of Delhi, the anger starts to rise, as does the idling petrol bill of your vehicle. If it is hyper, unending construction of either a highway or a superhighway or whatever that takes your goat, time and money half way to Chandigarh, it is the complete breakdown of the network from thereon.
The potholes, gaping like crocodiles on a hunt start just outside of Ropar, though in patches there are stretches of a toll road in construction. The total toll tax we paid from Delhi to Una was close to Rs 300. The distance we covered was 500 km. The time we took was 13 hours! This means, 61 years after our tryst with destiny, we are able to travel into our own country at a dismal speed of less than 50 km an hour.
One wonders where all the money and schemes for road building in India goes. If one were to visit the insides of Himachal, one would call it a boon to be in Madhya Pradesh where roads are legendary for their broken down, un-traversable state.
Himachal, at least the un-touristy parts of it, is in a pitiable condition. As we progressed from Ropar, we were hit by potholes, which escorted us to our near death experience. For most part of the journey we were airborne in our car, instead of being on the seat. After Una, the condition worsened. Potholes increased to their maximum, compelling us to stop at short intervals and placate our protesting bones and car tyres.
Then came the kuchcha patch, which was apparently under construction, bringing some hope for the future in us. As we remarked, “At least there is some construction that is on,” our elder told us rather casually that the stretch had been in a similar state for close to 40 years now. He had, for the first time, come to this area to see the first blasts of dynamite, which had been used to blast away the mountains to make way for the far-in villagers.
Some kilometers ahead, the kuchcha road also started tapering off, that too on an uphill tract. From here on there were just big and small boulders which were looking like a pathway. The car slipped and skidded a thousand times before we reached our destination where any resemblance to a road gave up all pretense of existing. From hereon, there are only padyatras. The locals do that well, going on foot to villages far, far away. The visitors, however little, prefer to return from here.
If roads are dismal, the social attitude still exists in the primitive zone. Yes, they are simple villagers who work hard for every grain they grow. Yes, they are a populace which is more self-sufficient than us urbanites who need everything from maids to psychiatrists for running our lives. But harsh realities exist in these villages too.
Primary among them is the anti-woman syndrome which grips one and all — women hate to give birth to a girl more than perhaps the men would mind. That is surprising, considering that Himachali women, as a matter of official statistic, are more educated than their men. MAs, MScs, PhDs abound here, even in villages. Even in this visit I came across a dusvi fail man bringing home an MSc bride. No one really minded that, not even the bride and her parents. And while partaking of the marriage lunch, I was stunned to hear from a young married woman that she would not pass me a green chilly as that might lead to me giving birth to a girl. That this would be a horror worse than slow death was quite evident on her face. She, like all others, seemed to be otherwise quite a balanced person, taking care of the home, of her child’s studies and also the monthly budget of the entire household.
More on this in my next column. But just to sign off, the women of this region have a presiding deity by whom they all swear — He is a God who bars women from entering his cave. They have to go to a supporting mount opposite the deity’s high perch to pay their obeisance. Ask them why would they worship someone so anti-woman and they are all ready to burn you at the stakes — of course, without an explanation!
Published on February 22, 2009 in Sunday Pioneer; http://www.dailypioneer.com/158013/India’s-road-to-nowhere.html
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