SINGING out loudly, trying to keep in sync with the radio singer, I turned right from Lokmat Chowk. Just as I turned, the traffic light turned yellow. I increased the speed, and then braked hard. Right in front was a yellow board that must have come up during night, stating in bold letter, ‘DIVERSION’. By this time, traffic from the opposite side had started flowing, vehicles behind me formed a queue and soon the situation turned chaotic. I was struggling to maneuver my way into a constant flow of never ending traffic on a narrow road that had turned narrower with the barricading. I couldn’t find a spot to park and had to walk half a kilometer from where I parked. And that gave me ample time to process all that was going on. I noticed the road outside my office has suddenly developed an identity crisis. Half of it has decided to reinvent itself - new surface, fresh tar, big ambitions. The other half, at that point, appeared battered, and sad - probably waiting desperately for its turn for fresh tar. Mera number kab aayega. Between these two starkly different scenarios lies the harsh reality - cloud of dust obscuring the vision, making it difficult to breathe, the constant honking from impatient drivers, and a level of traffic confusion that put to shame the twists and turns in any thriller.

 

We all are aware that Nagpur is a laid-back city, and early working hours for them mean ten o’ clock or later. But naturally the road work begins at the exact hour when everyone needs the road the most. The machines, stationed there roar into life with such vengeance as if they are here to personally avenge every pothole complaint ever made by citizens. The drilling begins. The grinding begins. The scraping begins. Overaperiod of couple of days, after the work began, by the time I reach my desk, I already feel like I have lived through an action movie soundtrack - loud and deafening. But the real entertainment begins after that. Because while half the road is being relaid, the other half has turned into a universal solution for everything - incoming traffic, outgoing traffic, two-wheelers, cars, autos, pedestrians, and occasionally someone who seems to believe he is participating in a race. And of course, in our country people drive on the wrong side as if it’s their birthright. Not a little wrong side. A confident, committed, “I have chosen this path and I shall defend it” kind of wrong side. One morning, unable to resist the urge to play responsible citizen, I raised my hand and stopped a motorist who was advancing like a determined salmon swimming upstream. “Bhaiya, wrong side,” I said gently.

 

He looked at me with deep philosophical calm and replied, “Bas thoda sa”. In India, thoda sa is a very elastic concept. It can stretch across lanes, roads, and sometimes entire national highways. (My better half, who was later apprised of this, yelled at me, “This guy was decent. The next one might just try to run you over. Why don’t you mind your own business?” Me thinks it is this very approach of Saanu Ki that has led to the current situations that we find ourselves in.) Nearby stood two policemen watching this daily theatre unfold. I looked at them hopefully, expecting perhaps a whistle, a raised hand, or at least an expression of mild concern. When I saw all was quiet on the police front, I approached and pointed it out - just as a car was rushing wrong side trying to zig zag its way through the oncoming traffic. One of them shrugged and said, “Logon mein civic sense nahi hai.” And that was that. Case closed. I had to admire the honesty.

 

It was refreshingly straightforward. Rules exist, signboards exist, barricades exist, policemen exist - but civic sense is apparently sold separately. Which made me think: perhaps this is our greatest national superpower-our ability to blame ‘people’ while simultaneously being those very people. I realise that I am not above fault - even as I am complaining about traffic, I try to squeeze my vehicle into a space that is just enough for a twowheeler. So many of us criticise the system, but if we see a shortcut, we do not hesitate for a moment before going on the forbidden path. Not giving heed to the rules and regulations laid down by the authorities is not limited to road sense alone. Look around you - on any path, any locality and you will see how cleanliness -asubject very close to our collective hearts goes for a toss. We discuss this in seminars, this is a favourite issue for campaigners, and influencers post reels, sometimes on a daily basis, on social media posts, urging people and authorities asking for accountability. But on the ground, things get… creative. Some throw garbage out of moving vehicles with the casual grace of a cricket fielder returning the ball. Some spit with the confidence of an artist signing his work.

 

Some locate the nearest wall and decide it has volunteered for a completely different purpose. And all the while, even as this is happening in some part or the other, we complain about how dirty the city has become. It is a vicious circle of avoiding responsibility. The authorities, of course, do their bit. They lay down rules, install boards, paint lanes, and occasionally issue warnings. The law can punish, enforce, and regulate - but it cannot enter a person’s mind and whisper, “Hey, you shouldn’t be doing this.” That part is entirely our department. As I walk to the office, watching vehicles zigzag across a half-constructed road, it suddenly struck me that infrastructure development in our cities has a two-fold character - it is as much an engineering challenge as it is a psychological experiment. A well-laid road doesn’t necessarily promise smooth, well-regulated traffic. We will still speed, honk and do our best to ensure that the other road users are harassed by our behaviour. Sometimes we even take great sadistic pleasure in it. Of late the road infrastructure has improved - we have to give the authorities credit where it is meant to be given - lanes are marked, signals and systems are in place (so what if half the cameras and signals are not working) - but they only work if people agree, collectively and quietly, that order is a good idea. Otherwise, chaos prevails, and like always we adapt. In fact, the half-relaid road outside my office has become a perfect metaphor for civic behaviour. One half is new, planned, and hopeful. The other half is familiar, unpredictable, and slightly battered. And we, the citizens, move between the two with remarkable creativity. Every day the machines return, grinding and levelling, determined to make the road smoother. And every day we return, determined to test just how flexible the concept of rules can be. Perhaps that is why the policemen did not seem surprised. They have probably seen this story unfold many times. Road gets repaired. Traffic adjusts. People complain. People break rules. People blame people. And life goes on - honking, spitting, shortcuttaking and all. Still, I remain optimistic. After all, if roads can be relaid, perhaps civic sense can also be resurfaced one day. Until then, we continue driving confidently on the wrong side of progress - insisting, of course, that it's only ‘thoda sa’.