By Ellerine Diengdoh
I would like to inform everyone who has so kindly (and repeatedly) asked why I’ve suddenly been writing so much. The truth is, I seem to be going through a bout of midlife clarity, and since traffic jams now last long enough for one to complete a thesis on the road, that’s exactly what I’ve been doing, except instead of research, I document the daily absurdities of life, one excruciating delay at a time.
The end of the financial year is upon us once again, that sacred time when the government suddenly realises it still has money left and must urgently spend it before someone asks awkward questions. And how does one spend money in a hurry? By launching an all-out assault on roads, pavements, and drains, as if they’ve personally offended someone in high places!
When I was younger, I used to think this time of year was something apocalyptic. It was always around this time that my father (who was otherwise quite sane) would start hyperventilating and sermonising about the “important work” he had to complete, using the same tone, frequency and decibels our Presbyterian pastors adopted when preaching about the Second Coming. Naturally, my muddled brain assumed both events involved chaos, suffering, and a whole lot of dust. And I wasn’t wrong. Because every March, like clockwork, the roads and everything else, would get torn up in a desperate, last-minute frenzy, as if the entire city had suddenly decided to turn itself into one giant archaeological dig site.
Of course, back then, we had fewer cars, so the digging was mostly just an inconvenience. Now, many decades later, it has evolved into a dystopian nightmare. The roads are packed tighter than Shillong cabs, and traffic jams are so insane that you leave home in your prime and arrive at your destination with three grey hairs and a mild case of spondylitis. And yet, the authorities look at this chaos and think, “Yes! Now is the perfect time to start digging!”
And then, of course, there’s the Pothole Repair Department, which waits all year before suddenly realising, just before the 31st of March, that every pothole in the city must be filled immediately! But not with actual road material. No, that would be too conventional. Instead, they employ the ‘whatever-I-can-lay-my-hands-on’ formula, consisting of bits of gravel, a few sentimental pebbles, last week’s leftover cement and a generous helping of moonshine-induced confidence, ensuring that by the first monsoon, the potholes will have fully regenerated… stronger and angrier than before, some of them deep enough to qualify as water bodies!
Let’s also not forget the last-minute pavement reconstruction projects. One day, you’re walking along your usual footpath, and the next morning, it has been stripped down to its foundation, with a lone shovel standing in the debris, looking as if the workers unearthed something horrifying and fled in terror. Pedestrians, now refugees, must dodge between speeding cars, homicidal buses, and deranged bikes and Scootys driven by “pronouns” who evidently believe in reincarnation!
Oh, and let’s talk about the speed breakers. Not the gentle, well-marked kind, that would be far too civilised. These are cunningly placed landmines, unmarked, unpainted, lurking in the shadows, waiting to ambush unsuspecting drivers. One moment, you’re driving along in blissful ignorance; the next, you’ve been violently catapulted into the stratosphere. By the time you land, seatbelt strangling you, suspension in tatters, soul temporarily leaving your body, you have a revelation: India doesn’t need expensive space programmes. Just strap a satellite to a car and let these death traps do the rest!
To add to this mayhem, the traffic diversions are pure sadistic genius. No Entry Here! Go There! No, Not There! Take a U-Turn! No, No, Not Here! I once followed a “Diversion” sign that led me straight back to where I started, which I assume was a deep, mystical, profound statement about the futility of life.
And finally, there’s the grand digging of drains. Not during the dry season when it makes sense. Instead, drains are dutifully excavated just before the rains, so that half-dug trenches transform into glorious, gushing rivers of urban filth, spilling onto the streets with rotting leftovers, sewage and that ever-present black sludge; composition unknown and, frankly, best left uninvestigated.
But here’s a thought… What if (and hear me out) the financial year didn’t end in March? What if we moved it to mid-December? That way, they could dig up the entire city when nobody is in a hurry. When schools and colleges are shut, half the city is on vacation and the rest are too full of Christmas spirits to care. It could be beautiful and perfect!
Of course, that would require planning. And foresight. And common sense. So, obviously, it’s never going to happen.
So, here’s to dust, despair, and eternal road rage. Now and forevermore. Amen!