The illusion of refined living in Delhi NCR

The corner of the National Capital Region we inhabit was, a mere two decades ago, nothing more than vast agricultural fields. Today, it stands transformed into a concrete jungle. The dodgy builder who sold us our apartment had confidently assured us that the locality would soon hum with commercial vitality and blossom into a vibrant cultural hub. With great flourish he declared that an area once traversed only by tractors would soon be teeming with low-slung chaar-churees (four bangles)—his unsophisticated term for the Audi logo.

It was, therefore, with joyful anticipation that I parted with my sturdy four-wheel-drive Jeep and acquired a pre-loved Audi. (For the uninitiated: A pre-loved car is the same as a second-hand one—only it costs a lot more.) The untarred roads between the condominium blocks, though dusty, were wide and smooth.

As I glided along in the Audi, I believed we had finally attained our dream of refined living—even if the snobs of Delhi’s Golf Links might sneeringly say that we lived in the boondocks.

“Look at these wide roads! Breathe the fresh air!” I would say to my wife. “Things can only improve.”

The first tangible improvement arrived in the form of freshly tarred roads, followed by the installation of gleaming stainless-steel bus shelters. I was elated.

But the missus, who only sees the negative side of things, observed, “These shelters encroach upon the roadway and leave no room for footpaths.”

“Look at the bright side,” I replied cheerfully. “This is progress. We shall soon enjoy every amenity of a proper city.”

“Really?” she countered, ever the sceptic. “Is there even a bus service here? These shelters were almost certainly erected to benefit certain contractors—no doubt for a handsome commission.”

She was, of course, correct. Even after many years we still await a local bus service. Vandals have long since stripped the structures of anything removable, while enterprising souls have converted many into paan shops and night shelters.

Stoically, we accepted the useless stainless-steel eyesores as part of the landscape and got reconciled to losing part of the road. Sometime later, when I bought my second pre-loved chaar-churee, a bright spark somewhere decided that the common man needed to have a dedicated cycle track.

“Wonderful!” I exclaimed. “Our little corner of NCR is becoming positively posh. We shall have a proper bicycle lane.”

“Look around you, stupid,” my wife replied, her cynicism undimmed. “Do you see anyone on a bicycle? This is just another scam to make money. Our roads will only grow narrower.”

As she had predicted, the carriageway shrank by a third. Worse still, the roadside ditches that served as drains got blocked. Within weeks, the newly cordoned cycle lanes—now protected by cement kerbstones—were commandeered by tyre-puncture repairers, cobblers, sugarcane-juice-wallas and coconut sellers. Pedestrians continued to gamble their lives on the roads, dodging cows, carts and cars. And whenever it rained, the streets remained waterlogged for days.

A couple of years ago, there was a brief hubbub when workers appeared to desilt the drains. They scooped out impressive quantities of rubbish and displayed it artistically beside the road. Although the thoroughfare grew narrower still, we exulted. At last, the rainwater would flow freely! Alas, the waste was never removed. When the monsoon came, most of it washed straight back into the drains. The rest added to the slush and filth on the road and in potholes.

Then, last summer, heavy earth-moving machinery rolled into the neighbourhood. Speculation ran wild—which buildings might fall to bulldozer justice? Apprehension turned to jubilation when it emerged that the machines had come to lay sewer lines. Wide trenches were dug on either side of the road; the carriageway narrowed to the width of a cart track. Still, we were happy. At last, we would have proper sewers!

The Hume pipes arrived and were stacked along the roadside. Collective hosannas went up from the surrounding condominiums. For a few glorious weeks we permitted ourselves to believe that the age of open drains was ending. Then nothing happened. For months.

When the IPL started, local urchins started playing cricket using the RCC pipes as stumps and backstop. The ragged beggar who sits outside the temple discovered that he could crawl into a pipe and sleep safe from the drunken drivers of powerful SUVs. The pipes, lying unused for about one year, have found their true civic purpose!

I am reluctant to admit it, yet all the evidence suggests that our roads are foredoomed to remain permanent construction sites. Sundry agencies keep laying telephone, data or television cables, drainage ducts, gas pipelines, electricity wires and water pipes. No sooner does one excavation conclude than another begins. If I didn’t know that the different agencies are incapable of coordinated work, I would have suspected them of conspiring to keep the roads forever dug up.

Delhi NCR, it seems, has achieved something extraordinary: it has elevated the failure to provide basic civic amenities into a form of permanent performance art. The drains are never clear, the sewers are never connected, the footpaths do not exist, and the roads are never finished. I am now quietly seeking an opportunity to exchange my sparingly used chaar-churee for an off-road vehicle of military-grade capability. Only then can I hope to negotiate the roads around my own home.

K.C. Verma is former chief of R&AW. kcverma345@gmail.com