A temporary slowdown
K S S Pillai
Not long ago, the automobile industry was worried stiff. Factories were shut down due to the pandemic, bringing production to a standstill. The distributors had large stock of unsold vehicles, as people were not in a hurry to upgrade their car to a new model. Political bigwigs, industrial barons, and financial experts were in a huddle, devising ways to enhance the demand for automobiles.
Banks were after potential borrowers, holding their nose in disgust at their old cars and luring them with attractive offers for loan to purchase a new one. People in general, especially the environmentalists, were happy that there was plenty of clean air everywhere. The pollution-free atmosphere had made it possible to see stars in the clear sky and hills and mountains from a great distance.
The euphoria, however, did not last long. To the great relief of those concerned, the sale of automobiles is reported to have picked up and the roads are once again chockablock with automobiles of all kinds.
Being a part of the daily peak-hour traffic, I am convinced that there are too many vehicles on our roads. I have to drive at a snail’s pace through traffic snarls and spend enormous time at traffic signals, toll booths, and fuel outlets. My blood pressure shoots up when another car overtakes me suddenly from the wrong side at break-neck speed, blaring its horn. I find most cars empty but for the drivers. Husbands and wives prefer to go to their respective workplaces in separate vehicles even though their offices are at a stone’s throw from each other. School-going children without driving licences merrily weave through traffic. Cars parked haphazardly on the roads of my housing colony make it a herculean task to manoeuvre through them.
Even before wearing masks was made compulsory at public places, my fellow evening walkers used to wear masks, like robbers out to ply their trade. The emission from automobiles leaves me breathless, and their impatient honks assault my ears. At night, the oncoming vehicles dazzle me with their headlights, never bothering to dip them. Crossing roads, even at zebra crossings, is a nightmare. I get drenched in dirty water during the rainy season, thanks to the drivers who care two hoots for pedestrians.
I would have been happy if the authorities had taken steps to discourage private cars by making public transport attractive. Experiments like sharing and pooling of vehicles, odd and even-numbered vehicles on roads on alternate days, and similar steps have been proved non-starters. Now that train services have been curtailed and several restrictions imposed on the passengers, groups of daily commuters are forced to use road transportation, making the roads all the more crowded.
The pandemonium on our roads sometimes reminds me of the condition of vehicular traffic that prevailed years ago at my native place. We used to walk to our school barefooted through sandy roads, banana leaves doubling as umbrellas during the rainy season and leaves of jackfruit trees as footwear during the summer.
The rich moved about in their fancy carts drawn by bullocks with painted horns, tiny bells dangling from their necks announcing their approach. The bicycle, decked like a bride, with a headlight and a tail light powered by a dynamo, used to be the usual means of transport. Sometimes it carried a family of four on it. Tarred or cement roads had not yet come to the villages, and a few buses moved on the uneven surface of metalled roads. Since rivers had no bridges over them, the four-wheeled buses crossed three rivers on manual ferries to reach the nearest town twenty kilometres away from my village!
I have no hesitation in admitting that my vote will go to today’s chaos on the roads if I have to choose between the past and the present.
(The author is a retired professor of English. Apart from The Kashmir Vision, his articles and short stories have appeared in various national and international publications)
KV Network
