All things must pass

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I was saddened by the collapse of a bridge in Gujarat a few weeks ago. There were warnings, apparently, and this wasn't the first time something like this had occurred in what we have been told is India's most developed state, but I couldn't help wondering if the sadness was a little misplaced. I am aware of how callous this makes me sound, of course, so please allow me to explain.

Yes, people lost their lives, but shouldn't we all have come to terms with that possibility by now? Isn't it something that anyone born in India starts to accept at a fairly young age, given what we all collectively experience during childhood, irrespective of where we grow up?

It made me think of my own past and recall my early years in the suburb of Malad, where what is now referred to as a call centre hub used to be a giant landfill. I realise the word ‘landfill' is incorrect here, because it implies a scientifically designed space for waste disposal. The more accurate term, based on what I remember, is ‘garbage dump'. Those stacks of rubbish would rise into the sky as we went past them in buses or rickshaws. The windows of every bus would be quickly closed, or handkerchiefs brought out, until we were safely past and in the vicinity of Goregaon.

Slowly, the garbage began to disappear, giving way to buildings, then townships, and malls. People from across the city and beyond started to arrive, paying a lot of money for apartments where electronic appliances would mysteriously cease to work. Many would fall ill, and still do, but no one talks about this because the words ‘toxic gases' tend to have an adverse effect on real estate prices. In a city where builder lobbies have more power than people in Parliament, that sort of thing is frowned upon. So, when I think of those years now, it is with the recognition that New Link Road taught me about the fragility of life, and how cheap it can be in the country I was born in.

The collapse of a bridge should no longer surprise us, and I see now that last month's incident didn't. There were muted howls of outrage, and one or two contractors may or may not have been arrested, but it was the usual set of actions that occurs in the aftermath of any tragedy. There's probably a playbook in place, one that is followed after any stampede, fire, or building collapse. Announcements of official inquiries are made, some officials are suspended, and vendors responsible for infrastructure are blacklisted until they change their company names and return a few years later. Ministers announce compensation and weep if the tragedy coincides with an election rally. Then, within days, we have all moved on.

What my local garbage dump prepared me for is the fact that everything must fall. New roads will develop potholes within days, bridges will start to rattle after renovations, and stairs will start to crumble after a makeover. It is the nature of things to have short shelf lives in India, and if a few hundred Indians must die, that is just part of the deal.

Look at the history of bridges alone. 34 people died in 2006 in Bihar when a disused bridge collapsed onto a passenger train at Bhagalpur station. In 2011, 30 people in Arunachal Pradesh and 32 in Darjeeling died after bridges collapsed in both places. A flyover collapse in Calcutta killed 26 in 2016, and over 137 died in Morbi, Gujarat, three years ago after a renovated bridge was reopened. It happens time and again, these reminders that our lives aren't in our hands, which is why I think we should make it official at some point: the government should just tell us that life outside or inside our homes shouldn't be taken for granted, so we can all start to prepare for this at a young age without the need for trauma. If this lesson is made part of our school curriculum, imagine the equanimity with which future generations of Indians will embrace a stampede or bridge collapse.

Until that happens, I suppose we must all do what people before us have done. We have to shake our heads at corruption, swear at elected representatives, have a few discussions with family and friends about how things will never change, and then make plans about how we can leave the country as soon as possible.

When he isn't ranting about all things Mumbai, Lindsay Pereira can be almost sweet. He tweets @lindsaypereira

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