By Robert Clements
Time to Fix the Oil Leak..!.
Somewhere in the nineties I bought what I believed was the most elegant machine on the Indian road. It was the Tata Estate and I must say that vehicle looked like a dream. It stood outside my house like royalty. People passing by slowed down to stare. Children pointed. Neighbours envied. And I must confess that I puffed my chest out every time I walked to it with the key in my hand. I felt like a king approaching his chariot. I believed I owned something that finally proved India had arrived on the world stage.
But my joy was short lived.
Not five years. Not even one year. Five months. Five months and the trouble began. First the engine coughed like it had taken ill after a winter night. Then the brakes behaved like they were meant only for gentle stops at a Mumbai traffic signal and not for the bold ambition of long journeys. The power steering felt like a reluctant bullock that refused to move no matter how much you coaxed or threatened. Every trip took twice the time because I kept watching the temperature gauge like an anxious ICU nurse watching a patient who might collapse any moment.The service centre soon knew me so well that I felt like sending them Diwali sweets and Christmas cake. We spent so much time together that I almost expected an invitation to staff picnics. They smiled cheerfully each time I drove in. I groaned. And every time I sat in the driver’s seat I prayed more fervently than I prayed in church.And I often wondered who had designed it. What kind of engineers had put it together. Were they chosen because they were brilliant or because they were somebody’s nephew or cousin or roommate or the son of a powerful union leader? Was it ability or was it favour? Was it competence or was it quota? Was it talent or was it adjustment?
And today when the world watches the Tejas crash and we rush to defend ourselves with an array of explanations and excuses my mind goes back to that proud gleaming vehicle outside my door. Once again I hear the same loud claims. We are one of the top engineering nations. We are an emerging superpower. We are the envy of the world. And we laugh at western reports that call us one of the most corrupt nations. We laugh at poverty statistics. We laugh at poor education rankings. We laugh at warnings about declining research standards. We silence critics. We admire ourselves so loudly that we drown out the truth.
But in one tragic second the world sees what lies beneath the paint. One crash and the questions arise. Are we pretending? Are we overselling? Are we standing on shaky ground pretending it is marble? Are we painting rust and calling it gold?
The world is not fooled. They have seen our bridges collapse. They have seen our trains derail. They have seen construction crumble like a biscuit dipped too long in tea. They have seen flyovers fall days after inauguration. They have seen the data. They have seen the rankings. And though we will soon shout pilot error the world hears design flaw. They hear negligence. They hear mismanagement. They hear corruption.
The gleaming Tata Estate that once stood proudly in my driveway soon became the embarrassment of my neighbourhood. People smirked. Friends sympathised. Mechanics laughed. And finally I surrendered my pride and sold it at the price of scrap. The Tejas crash has now become the embarrassment of a nation that wanted to strut on the runway like a peacock. We had spread our feathers. We practiced the victory walk. We had written the headlines before the take off.
But an oil leak always tells the truth. A loose bolt always betrays the boast. A poorly trained mechanic always exposes the lazy system. Quality cannot be faked. Skill cannot be substituted with slogans. Pride cannot replace performance.
And maybe this is our national weakness. We love to cover the cracks with fresh coats of paint. We love to decorate broken foundations with bright banners. We love speeches more than repair work. We love celebrations more than corrections. We love applause more than improvement. We love pretending that everything is fine while the oil quietly drips on the ground.
I remember once sitting on the side of the Mumbai Pune highway with the bonnet up and cars whizzing past me. A truck driver leaned out and shouted with a laugh, “Saab, gaadi acchi dikhthi hai, par chalti kam hai.” And I, sweating and humiliated, nodded.
Somebody needs to say the same to us today. The nation looks good on the outside. The paint shines. The chrome sparkles. The speeches glitter. The slogans sound heroic. But when the bonnet is lifted the wires are loose. The oil is leaking. The engine is gasping. And the brakes are unreliable.
It is time to fix the oil leak. It is time to repair instead of argue. It is time to improve instead of boast. It is time to appoint engineers for their brains, not their connections. It is time to reward talent not obedience. It is time to build pride in performance not propaganda.
Because if we do not fix the engine now the next crash will be louder. The next embarrassment will be bigger. And the next silence after the explosion will be filled not with excuses but with tears.Let us stop posing like a superpower on the runway and start working like a mechanic in the garage. Let us remove the banners and pick up the toolbox. Let us repair. Let us rebuild. Let us become worthy of applause instead of begging for it.
It is time to fix the oil leak.
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