Of Dreams and Skylines

Urban infrastructure in Delhi NCR is a question mark that lurks around corners, like a sly predator waiting to ambush you in an unguarded moment. Step into Gurgaon where I live, and it will be clear what I mean: global and gobar are concurrent realities that, despite the paradox, coexist peacefully in Millennium City. Its tall office towers with imposing green-glass facades, or glitzy spoilt-for-choice malls, may not be engineering marvels, but they veritably showcase New India's ambitious dreams. Soar high in their alluring promise and you are in for a rude awakening — the sickening grind of your car's underbelly being tested on sludge-filled, potholed dirt-tracks that masquerade as the city's roads. The contrast is telling — the government's criminal apathy in a revenue-rich district is obvious. Yet, it also betrays the resigned compromise its denizens have made with the contempt sarkari-tantra displays for its upkeep.

This dichotomous backdrop made a piece in HT Comments (Our Forbidden Cities, Francesco Giavazzi) on Monday especially interesting. Its moot point was that youth (bigger dreams, more energy to realise them) provide the power — and urban infrastructure the vehicle — for development. The logic virtually anoints cities as playgrounds for progress, with benefits that ultimately accrue to large populations. Giavazzi argued that such transformation, while difficult, is achievable, predictably citing Shanghai's example (I say ‘predictably’ without malice — a visit back in 2006 had convinced me that anyone struggling to grasp the meaning of ‘economies of scale’ merely had to spend a day in China's showpiece city). The part left almost unsaid in the article was how India does not really have much of a choice in the matter — at risk is the souring of our much-vaunted demographic dividend itself.

Going beyond Shanghai, the point is that better utilisation of scarce urban land can have significant economic and social benefits for our country at large. This is true in the sense of upgrading our Tier 2 and Tier 3 towns as well as replacing haphazard growth in larger cities with a more planned and sustainable one. On the first, consider how amenities — or even look and feel — in city #100 in the US compare with NYC (notwithstanding the scale) and see the gaping hole between even Delhi and Patna. I say this not simply enamoured of downtown skyscrapers in any American city of note, but of the economic realities that support such growth, and resulting quality of life for citizenry that results from it (including but not limited to impact on curtailing migration that seems to so upset the Sheila Dikshits and Raj Thackerays of the world, assuming they actually believe in their flawed diatribes).

Suggestions abound on the second aspect too, namely making the most of our larger cities. For instance, consider replacing Sarojini Nagar's ubiquitous sarkari structures with modern high-rise apartment complexes. An important point is that this model benefits not just the moneyed — its erstwhile civil servant occupants too would enjoy (at marginal cost) facilities they often bemoan 'overpaid MBA types' for accessing. Similarly, better intra-NCR connectivity can do more for Noida's realty prices than bombarding my highly-leveraged self with twenty unsolicited SMS offers a day (last I checked, the much-promised KMP Expressway was set to miss its fourth revised deadline). Nor is such lackadaisical execution a hallmark of the national capital alone — Mumbai's pride and joy, the Sea Link, is grossly over budget, behind schedule, and barely half complete.

No doubt there are other larger, more contentious issues. Land policy, the subject of a typically token recent demonstration by the ruling party's Gen Secy cum PM-in-waiting, is prime among them. The need to stamp out corruption in implementation has similarly hogged headlines. Yet, Gurgaon is living proof of the inadequacy of our urban planning policy — either non-existent or hopelessly delegated to private developers — to support the growth of infrastructure, let alone stimulate it; and an educated citizenry's failure to propel the government to action. I hope for our sake, and our children, that at least one of these changes soon.

Immortal Storyteller

I did not know much of this story until February this year. In fact it came to light with its hero's sad demise in the month. For a lot of my contemporaries this arrived not a moment too soon — it merely added to folklore, much like the eternal creations this protagonist had put to paper: a story that must be told. But I get ahead of myself — let us start with an anecdote.

The year was 1967. A 37-year-old gentleman, visiting Delhi with his wife, chanced upon a quiz show on Doordarshan — then the solitary channel on air, beamed to all of seven cities — while at a bookstore. As fate would have it, he watched the participants (from St Stephen’s College) come up woefully short on a question regarding the name of Lord Ram's mother. Dismayed at this pitiful awareness of Indian culture, he was even more abashed to see the students effortlessly answer a subsequent query on Greek mythology. Stung by the irony, Anant Pai resolved, Chanakya-like, that he would do something to fix this gap — and Amar Chitra Katha was born. The rest, as they say, is history.

It is not as if ACK was Uncle Pai's first foray into children's minds. An earlier attempt at kiddie fare, over a decade before that fateful Delhi evening, titled Manav, had sadly failed. In fact, the intervening period saw him at The Times of India group. There he had played a key role in bringing to life the similarly iconic Indrajal comics (more on them some other day). Again, even after that serendipitous quiz show moment and before ACK's ultimate resounding success, many publishers of the age had cold-shouldered his venture. India Book House finally gave the concept a home, kicking off a partnership that gave young India its most-read (100 million, and counting) comic book series. A telling facet of Pai's personality could be found a few years later too, when he was on the verge of another wildly popular series. Finding himself stuck in multiple futile launch meetings to decide its name, with corporate yuppies and their numerous interruptions to attend ostensibly critical phone calls, he decided to name the mag itself 'Tinkle'!

Apart from its hyperbole and undeniable commercial success, Uncle Pai's life remains memorable for the indelible influence his creations had on succeeding generations of young India. Yet, it is also the story of a legacy borne out of deep personal conviction. Whether it was retelling our rich mythological heritage and history at ACK, Krishna through JP, or dishing out infotainment in Tinkle, Kaalia the crow, Kapish the monkey, Shikari Shambu, or Suppandi — Uncle Pai's signature was all-pervasive. Back at Bennett Coleman too he had argued for the culturally neutral — and amenable to a quasi-Indian setting — Phantom and Bahadur. At ACK, after ten issues depicting Cinderella and Red-Riding-Hood style fairytales, Pai personally penned Krishna, downplaying divine miracle in favour of pure raconteur value.

As it turned out, after an indifferent start, the ACK framework took hold, ultimately spawning a pantheon of comic-book writing in India. I can think of few folks in generations either side of mine who were untouched by his creations. They were tucked-in, happy bedside reads, hastily finished in school buses as the stop drew near, or hungrily devoured post lunch before one rushed out for a spot of evening games; and an introduction to the barter system as we traded and re-traded the comics. Yet, without exception, we discovered a highlight of pre-teen existence. If ignorance of history condemns us to repeat it, or missing legends past restricts us from finding that odd hero or heroine in our present, Uncle Pai found us a fix, for good.

Oblivious to his worldly achievements and continuing to be driven by lofty ideals ("Bharat ke bachche agar sapne dekhein to Bharat ke sapne dekhein"), Uncle Pai soldiered on for over four decades. His death in February, aged 81, came barely days after being felicitated for lifetime achievement by Comic Con India, the nation's inaugural comic-book convention. I dare say that given his contribution, the award needed him more than he deserved it. He was working on Glimpses of Glory for the last few years, to capture forty game-changing moments from our history. His characteristic humility would have stopped him, but he might well have included his own. Om Shanti, sir.

Mercury Rising

The PA crackles out loud: "...the outside temperature is 33 degrees" in a typically disjointed flight attendant's voice. It sounds ominous for the Cinderella hour, but Delhi May heat is rarely for the faint-hearted. Nonetheless, it offers me little succour — an uncommonly rude landing has woken me up rather unceremoniously, arms flailing, a few moments prior. Perhaps it's one of those pilots selected for nepotistic reasons (I have followed that story with more than passing interest, including to check if my preferred airline finds a dishonourable mention. None yet, but tonight's rough touchdown suggests that may merely have been good PR). Welcome to India's corruption capital.

These thoughts run through my half-awake mind as the aircraft taxis interminably to the dock. I wonder if I should switch on the phone (I ought to be contrite but no other rule tempts me thus with any regularity). Perhaps I don't need to do this surreptitiously but my guilt has not lessened despite sharing it with a planeload of passengers, flight after flight. A mental shrug later, I decide to wait. (It helps that the late hour rules out folks waiting with bated breath to hear of my progress through the space-time curve.)

At long last the aircraft reaches the gate. This is the cue for two-thirds of its passengers (it's a full flight) to rush into the aisle, much like our parliamentarians troop to the Well in Zero Hour. Everyone seems ready to risk life and limb (never their own) to pull their carry-ons out of the overhead bins. A few moments of heave-ho, and they are ready for the charge, undeterred by the knowledge of a wait before the aircraft doors open (the continued analogy with similarly puerile calisthenics by our Hon'ble MPs is striking). I want to get up and stretch but settle for making the most of the exit row legroom. It does little to uplift my mood.

Minutes later I am part of the Indian file — a laptop bag, my solitary piece of luggage, slung over my shoulder — negotiating my way out of the aluminium tube. I try my best to reciprocate the (forced) enthusiasm in the cabin crew's goodbyes, and manage a smile I hope is bright enough. My perennially-in-meeting-mode phone whirs to life with sundry messages enticing me to assorted properties in Noida, and one that reassures me I am not alone in the world. It cheers me up a little and there is almost a bounce in my step as I climb aboard the travelator. One of the last flights of the day means that, but for my co-passengers, there are no milling many, sporting bored scowls and assorted attire that mildly hint at their ports of embarkation.

Passing many empty arrival gates, not for the first time do I wonder why we dock at the farthest end. Perhaps it is FIFO but that sounds too simple and logical for any self-respecting sarkari decision-maker. In any case, even at the end of a long day, the physical exertion of a walk through the terminal's brightly lit but desolate confines easily outscores its mad-dash alternative (unless you crave the excitement of a wildly careening bus ride — lurching over the asphalt in the darkness while you desperately try to retain a modicum of balance, the beast chasing down intermittent islands of light in the daunting expanse of a large airport).

Used to long strides, my progress on the walkway is typically brisk, though in fits and starts as I encounter slower-moving traffic. My stock response to such interruptions is to wait and take advantage of the travelator's section breaks, and occasionally to edge in sideways. Today I stick to the patience-pays credo, perhaps due to a renewed wave of grogginess as random sounds of our progress through the terminal prey on my mind. The muffled pitter-patter and bolder clickety-clacks of miscellaneous footwear distinctly lose to the grating noise of assorted stroller-bags being dragged over the metal. It is an uneven crescendo that threatens to jar the senses, much like an orchestra spinning out of control. This pipe music adds a laconic twist to the sight of a specimen in stilettos, positioned plumb in front of the ladies' room, but thinking the corridor a better place to powder the nose than the privacy inside. Perhaps this one seeks comfort in the crowd. Whatever.

Down the escalator and past the palm-mudras arrayed in greeting, I near the exit. Expectedly I spot some of the prominent members of the shove-all-aisle-rush genus of the flying species head towards the conveyor belt to await their registered luggage. Without such baggage (pun intended) I continue straight and hit the Meru counter a minute later. Surprisingly there are no cabs at the ready (I see smallish queues at the other radio taxi providers too) and I wait my turn, OCD-heavy as I count off the six folks ahead of me. Tonight cabs hunt in pairs, like fast bowlers, and my ride arrives soon enough. I jump in with a few minutes to go before midnight, but am sure I have not had the last of the portended 33 degrees...