As his belly rises with each deep, slow breath, his frayed undershirt
exposes the bare skin underneath – brown, of course, due to genetics, but
browned even more deeply from a life in the sun. The thin plastic chair upon
which he sits bends with his weight as he sinks deeper into afternoon slumber. His
feet rest upon a bare wooden bed-frame where his customers sit during his “open” hours. His head hangs loosely yet stably above his
broad shoulders and from his slightly open mouth escape snores I can hear in my
car, as I pass slowly through the village.
Around him, young children scamper about, free from the morning hours in
school, starched uniforms carefully removed to be ready for tomorrow, shoes
placed neatly by the door frame in which a door should exist but doesn’t. In
undershirts, short pants and bare feet they frolic about, entertained now by a
branch, now by an old tire, now by throwing rocks at the mango tree to coax
fresh mangoes to the ground. Soon they
will have to utilize the last hours of daylight to complete their homework, but
for now they exuberantly chase a frayed rubber tire down the dirt road, at the
end of which they will sit and suck mango juice out of freshly fallen
fruit. As the afternoon sun softens and
shadows begin to fall upon the road, women sweep the porches of the shops and
adjacent homes, getting ready for evening customers who will come to purchase a
handful of rice, a few cups of flour or some coconut oil for their hair.
At the end of the dirt road, our car turns right and the
village disappears. Narrow, unpaved streets
lined with brick and mud homes, shops carrying basic necessities, stalls of
fresh fruit and vegetables, dozing men and scampering children give way to “Developed
India.” Now the roads are covered with
smooth black asphalt, reflecting the afternoon sun back into our eyes. There are different lanes for each direction,
separated by a wide divider, in which lush greenery and flowering plants in
hues of pink and purple stand out in sharp contrast to the black of the roads.
Multi-storied modern buildings line the roads, each with its
own parking lot and separate, electronic entry gate. On a corner an enormous complex
is topped with a sign saying Shopping Mall and the names of foreign stores are
illuminated on the concrete wall -- myriad franchises of clothing, jewelry and
shoe companies from America, Italy and England. Next to the mall, the golden arches of
McDonalds shine brightly in the soot filled sky. Both
sides of the road are peppered with signs for sophisticated bars and
restaurants, reminiscent of those on the Champs Elysee, Sloane street or Sunset
Boulevard.
The offices, bars, restaurants and shopping malls are
dwarfed, however, by the structures driving the rapid development. Factory after factory complex stretches out
toward the horizon in every direction except backwards. Backwards -- due West --
lie the villages, and beyond that the forest from which the village children
eat fresh mangos, the branches of trees serving as fuel for their evening meal.
Ahead -- to the
North, South and East -- are nothing but factories. Smokestack after smokestack
spews out hot black air. Soon, the newly painted cream colored walls of the
high rise buildings will be black. Soon, only the golden arches of McDonalds,
where they fry up the mother cow and serve her between slices of bread with a side
of tomatoes, will be visible in the thick black air.
Skinny, darkly tanned young men, perhaps the sons of
snoozing villagers, ride bicycles in the road, on the back of which are tied
heavy air conditioning units and stacks of fashionable plastic chairs. They dart between cars, their backs wet with perspiration,
their loads twice the height of the bike and more than ten times the weight.
Young men and women rush in and out of the cars parked in
the lots. They are dressed in Western business attire – suits and ties for the
men, long skirts and tops (or an occasional tailored salwar kameez) for the
women. They carry briefcases and
clipboards. Over the women’s shoulders hang heavy purses bearing designer
names. They buzz about, from the cars
into the doors of the offices, out of the office doors, into the cars, up to
the road to McDonalds or the bar, perhaps to the shopping mall, accidentally
bumping shoulders with each other on paved sidewalks. Conversations are frenetic; hands wave in
every direction illustrating points of great importance, toes tap in high heels
or designer loafers as they wait for each other to finish a sentence. As they cross the road, rushing from one
meeting to another, or from their parked car to an office, the afternoon sun
casts shadows in the wrinkles on their faces.
Their grimaces have become etched into the very fabric of their skin. Occasionally they cover their mouths with
silk handkerchiefs as they cough and wheeze in the unbridled pollution. They
smile, perhaps, in the evenings over a beer or bottle of wine.
This, the row after row of factories, toxins gushing into
the air, multi-storied buildings with central air conditioning, drive-thru McDonalds,
restaurants where one can leisurely sip a beer or wine or whisky with dinner,
this is “Developed India.” Women in short
skirts and heels, men in black suits on a summer day, sky-high stacks of plastic chairs, take-away
Styrofoam containers, block-length shopping malls, product after product to quench people’s
thirst for happiness. Surely, at the end
of a particularly busy day or week or month, these women and men will rush into
the toy store to buy a new Sony Play-station for their children, assuaging
their ephemeral regret at not having time to spend at home. Their children will sit in front of a
computer screen, playstation controls in one hand, bag of potato chips in the
other and numb their longing for a hug.
What is development? What is progress? By what specific
measures do we say that we have moved “forward” from the peacefully dozing
grocer? Are the children with the playstation, who will inevitably clamor for
newer and newer models, truly more “privileged” than those who spend the
afternoon happily chasing a car tire down the dirt road or knocking mangoes out
of trees? Has chopping down the forest
to build factories that produce not only commercial products but also toxic
waste, pollution, cancer and global warming really benefited our country? When we say “development,” what exactly is it
that we have “developed?” Immunity to thick black air pollution until it turns
cancerous in our lungs? Dependency upon goods
packaged in inordinate amounts of plastic?
Ignorance of the futility of trying to fill inner emptiness with material
possessions? Blindness to the violence inherent in the production of meat?
Distance between us and our families, between us and God, between us and our
true Selves? What, really, have we
developed?
When I first came to India one of the most remarkable aspects
to me of the culture and the country was the peace on people's faces -- the
rich, the poor, the old, the young, the homeless, the hungry, the educated and
the illiterate. It was as though one's lot in life was simply part of the
"package deal" of human birth. It had very little connection to one's
sense of self or self-worth. Even those
who lived far below western standards of abject poverty were eager to share.
"Please come home for dinner,"
I heard countless times from people who could not even afford to feed their own
families let alone an extra mouth. In
fifteen years, much has shifted. Perhaps bombarded by Western and Westernized
serials, movies, fashion magazines and cultural indoctrination, the "new
India" has started judging its self worth much like the West does -- by
the balance in their bank account, the number of shopping bags on their arms,
the brand of sunglasses upon their faces and the size of their waists. There is a feverish clamoring for more and
more, better and better, newer and newer. India has become a country where there
are nearly twice as many mobile phones as toilets.
India's image of itself has also shifted significantly. Where emphasis previously had been on
development and production of intelligence, of knowledge, of science and
technology, now it has shifted to development and production of marketable
goods. Not goods that India is traditionally famous for -- not silk, woven
fabrics, artwork, Ayurvedic medicines, herbs and spices, but generic goods,
goods that are a symbol of the rapidly burgeoning middle class -- motorcycles,
tires, plastic containers, mobiles, leather handbags.
An inevitable and inextricable part of production is
waste. There is a direct, linear
relationship between the volume of goods produced by a factory and the volume
of waste cast by that factory into local rivers, lakes and groundwater or
spewed into the air. As India rushes exuberantly
toward unbridled consumerism, she must be prepared for a rapid devastation of
her air and water quality. This tragic prophecy is already a fact. More than two-thirds of people living in the
eastern Ganga River Basin suffer from water borne illnesses. More than three million people die annually
as a direct result of the toxic, commercial, industrial and wastewater
pollutants that are dumped -- more than 1.3 billion liters PER DAY -- into Her
waters. As we clamor for more and more,
newer and newer, as we continue to associate our self worth with the
knick-knacks on our counters, as we employ TVs and computers as baby-sitters,
we are rendering our natural environment unliveable.
“It’s the government’s
fault,” people shout out of habit. “The
administration has already allocated billions of rupees to the Clean Up Ganga
program. What has happened to it?”
However, the problem is not nearly as simple as it may seem. Basic
infrastructural issues such as sewage, solid waste, and garbage collection
should certainly be taken care of by local and state municipalities. However,
we all have a serious role to play as well – both in the problem and the
solution. While untreated sewage cascades from drains and gutters into Ganga,
this is far from the only problem She faces.
The hundreds of factories lining Her banks produce 260 million liters of
toxic waste per day that fill Her waters, poisoning not only the fish and
dolphins that live in Her waters, but also the 450 million Indians who depend
upon these waters for their very lives – their water for drinking, bathing,
cooking and agriculture. The commercial
and industrial effluents are suffocating the sacred river, squeezing the life
out of Her waters and all species which inhabit them.
Every new product we purchase, every gram of plastic
packaging, our leather car seats, purses and shoes produced in these factories
has a direct impact on the levels of toxins in Ganga and therefore upon the
health of our brothers and sisters who live downstream. The exorbitant amount of electricity required
to run the factories at warp-speed, at all hours of the day and night, necessitates
construction of dams on the river. These dams, functioning as
“Run-of-the-River” projects, diverting water out of the riverbed, further
diminish the volume of water available to dilute the toxins. It is a tragic
lose-lose situation, a cycle of violence --- violence to Ganga and violence to
those whose lives depend upon Her waters being clean and free-flowing.
Development is necessary. One cannot move backwards in time.
Children raised on a Playstation should not be forced to try to amuse
themselves with a tire. Progress in the fields of education,
technology, science and manufacturing are fabulous boons for any society and
particularly Indian society which was oppressed for so many years prior to
Independence. However, freedom should
not be interpreted as a license for decadence or gluttony at the expense of
others. As tempting as it is to revel in
new wealth and newly available items, options and variety, we must strive to do
so with a long-term view in mind. A revered saint once said, “Your freedom ends where my toes begin.” If our freedom of purchase is turning the
water that hundreds of millions depend upon for life into toxic sludge, then
perhaps it is time to re-evaluate the expression of our freedom. If our freedom of extravagance threatens to
ravage the river revered as Mother Goddess by more than a billion people, and
upon whose banks millions perform daily ablutions, then are we not infringing
upon the freedom of others?
The issue of balance and sacrifice is a sensitive one. No
one with the economic ability to spend wantonly would like their freedom to be
curtailed. However, today, we no longer can pretend that we live in a vacuum.
What I purchase here, is impacting the lives of those over there. I am not suggesting bans or even taxes or
disincentives for purchasing. I am simply
suggesting that perhaps as a society we
can re-evaluate our understanding of the idea of freedom, wealth and
development. Perhaps the man who can
sleep soundly in the middle of the day, with a village bustling around him is
wealthier in some meaningful way than those who need pills or a few glasses of
wine or even the lull of a TV to fall asleep in their posh bedroom at
midnight. Perhaps, in the rapid rush to
move forward, to break through the glass
ceilings of centuries of colonization, perhaps we have left something valuable
behind. And, perhaps, that which we’ve left behind may benefit not only
ourselves personally, but the very country we call Bharat Mata. Perhaps the
answer to some of what ails us, our environment, our sacred rivers and hundreds
of millions of our brothers and sisters can be found not by pushing further
forward, but by pausing and looking back to see if we didn’t lose something
along the way.
