We celebrate urbanisation. As our cities strive for, and claim modernity and a having global outlook about cities, one notices a curious counter-rhythm. Wander through the bustling streets across most of our big cities, and you might find yourself dodging not just sleek cars but also the occasional human racing to cross the road, faster than your car can drive. And yes, depending on the city or suburb, sometime one does see goats or cows trying to get that access. Our cities may be reaching for the stars, but it seems our hearts are forever entwined with the roots of a rustic past.
Amidst our concrete jungle, where Wi-Fi signals intertwine like vines, one might witness impromptu gatherings that resemble village fairs. Forget the stately boardroom meetings; here, decisions are made over chai & pakoras or chaat in makeshift stalls, encroachments alongside the road. While our smartphones get smarter, our city streets seem to be acquiring a penchant for a more primal type of chaos.
In this modern age of information, one might expect public spaces to be abuzz with discussions on wordly matters. Yet, it’s not uncommon to overhear heated debates about which street vendor serves the best ‘golgappa’. It appears that the more our cityscape adopts a global outlook, the more we find comfort in the familiar embrace of the rustic. As we erect skyscrapers that touch the clouds, we can’t help but notice the persistent aroma of street food wafting through the air. It’s as if our urban spaces have a secret allegiance to the simpler pleasures of life, defying the sophistication that glass and steel structures strive to exude.
In this paradoxical urban metamorphosis, we are witnessing the quirky resilience of our primitive instincts, playfully reminding us that no matter how many megabytes we consume, there’s a part of us that craves the simplicity of a bhutta-roasted-over-coals ata street side stall, over a Powerpoint presentation. The message is loud and simple: The more we urbanise, and the more global our outlook is supposed to be, the more primitive and rustic we behave in our city spaces.
In most of our cities, the simple act of parking becomes a chaotic ballet where each driver pirouettes without a thought for the traffic or others. Conversations blossom in the middle of the road, turning thoroughfares into impromptu social clubs, oblivious to the honking, swelling in frustration. Parking spaces become abstract concepts, as vehicles sprawl in a haphazard design, showing neither respect for the law nor the inconvenience caused to fellow citizens. People have money to buy or rent apartments, and yet will not hesitate to park on the street outside, thereby reducing the actual traffic flow. The philosophy of “swalpa adjust maadi,” a common refrain in Bengaluru, just needs a different Indian language phrase, to mean the same poor civic behaviour.
Amidst the clamour for cleanliness, our streets double as spittoons and dustbins, the echoes of our disregard for public spaces. We champion hashtags for a Swachha Bharat, yet our keystrokes are drowned out by the splatter of saliva and dumping of garbage on the pavement. The irony is as tangible as the litter we mindlessly toss from our car windows, teaching our children that the trail of plastic wrappers and cans is an acceptable aftermath of a snack. And we are equally at ease preaching about circular economy and sustainability from the podium in a Net Zero conference.
The urban symphony is incomplete without the relentless honking, a chorus of impatience that reverberates through residential areas. Turn-indicators gather dust, dismissed as optional extras, while honking is bestowed the role of an indispensable anthem. Little do we grasp the health hazards our cacophony inflicts on our neighbours, who endure the noise pollution like an uninvited guest. And yet, we balk at the mere thought of using indicators, deeming them a luxury in a world where noise is free. After all, we don’t realise that these turn-indicators don’t cost us anything.
As we demand encroachment-free havens for our residences, we hardly know which municipal ward one resides in. And we will crib if someone actually takes the effort of getting encroachments and illegal hawkers removed, with a new complaint that we have to now travel 1 km to get our vegetables. The more we urbanise, the lazier and poorer our civic behaviour gets. As our rustic Indian-English goes, “We are like this only, no!”
Dr Srinath Sridharan is a policy researcher and corporate adviser. X: @ssmumbai
