I live at Indirapuram, some 30 km from Delhi. It’s largely a residential area with manhattans, reasonably wide roads and a mix of shacks selling everything from potatoes to printers and plush malls that sells all of this and more under one roof in airconditioned comfort.
The view from my eighth floor flat is remarkable. Through a wide tunnel – two tall apartment blocks restricting the view on either side – I see India in transformation. Along the boundary walls of our housing society runs a blacktop road with neat white lane markers. Across, stands a seedy two-room “international school” for neighbourhood kids and shops selling BlackBerry phones and bicycles. A cardiologist has set up shop as well.
Beyond are the shrinking boundaries of a village. Once upon a time, this must have been a reasonably big settlement of agrarian people. Now only a few single storey asbestos-top homes stand guard around a defiant patch of green farmland that serves as a daily reminder of the Indian urban monster’s fearsome onward march. Just beyond, the menacing vertical structures scramble the skyline. On lonely nights, when it is quiet, neon signs blink in the distance.
The view is particularly inviting on rainy days. The circular green carpet looks greener. The uneven walls of the homes hemming it wear a patchy, soaked look. The asbestos roofs glisten. Around 11 am on weekdays, a gong is routinely hammered at the “international school”. Men and women, presumably teachers, scurry around as children rush to class with bags, books and dreams.
The view is somewhat similar to a panorama I had seen at Solan and for some strange reason remains etched in my memory. Tumbling buildings, some yellow others fading, obscene half-finished structures, humble single-storey dwellings and a similar green patch wrestling one another. Throw in a couple of rolling hills and bone-biting chill and a perfect picture of hills under siege would emerge.
The eighth-floor perspective is distant and not all real. Get off the tower and wade into the chaos. The noise, dust and grime intimidate. A roadside florist bravely sells real chrysanthemums and plastic bouquets beside a garbage mound, cars zip, honk and wrestle, hole-in-the-wall shops, electrical wires dangling lose, flies, broken uneven pavements, tin roof shanties where construction workers live and people coming in waves – urban India in all shades.
Gloomy narrow lanes branch off from the main street and head up to the speck of rural insolence that still holds out against the crushing march of urban India. Tenements that came up years ago line these choked arteries. Most of these have transformed into property agents’ offices, photocopying centres, couriers, garment stores and groceries. These had come up when the city monster had invaded the area first.
Flanking the near side of the road is a wall of malls, stores selling big brands and multiplexes. The conquest of these areas is complete. Proliferating colonies and tall apartment blocks have erased all traces of the flat expanse of open farmlands and villages.
This has happened over years. The city like a thick slithering cover of flaming hot lava has burnt up everything, pushed boundaries and enveloped all that has come its way.
Just a lone patch of defiance fights to survive.
