By Ratna Manucha
It was a fairy tale beginning alright.
Once upon a time, there was this cute, quaint little town that went by the name of Dehradun nestled in the foothills of the Shivalik ranges. In case you hadn’t guessed, it’s me I’m talking about. Me, moi, yours truly. I’m sure you all know how I got my name so we won’t start on that again. Suffice it is to say I was known for being a town of gray hair and green hedges. Well, gray hair because many people who retired from the services settled down here and green hedges … obviously because there were no walls then, dividing people’s homes. Whoever coined the phrase, ‘people are lonely because they build walls instead of bridges’ obviously hadn’t heard of hedges! Duh! Those beautiful, low, green hedges, over which neighbours exchanged daily platitudes.
Those were happy times. The salubrious weather, the verdant green valley crisscrossed with rivulets, streams and rivers that jiggled to their own sing song tune as they tumbled over the rocks, made me do a little jig myself. The people who lived here were quiet, genteel folk and the clip clop of the tongas ensured that everyone lived life at a quiet, unhurried pace. Things couldn’t have been better.
But they could get worse.
And they did.
A lot worse.
But I don’t think anyone saw the doom approaching, as it crept up on us slowly and stealthily.
One day, from a one-horse town – literally, I was now classified as a city, as I was upgraded to a capital. Did that make my chest swell up with pride? No. Instead, the news fell upon me like a ton of bricks…the same bricks that soon were going to tumble all over me like a heap of rubble once the destruction began.
But I was helpless. People descended upon me in droves, and soon I felt I was bursting at the seams. I felt as if someone was constricting my chest and I began to choke. I couldn’t breathe. An important reason was that the beautiful green trees that gave me so much of joy were slowly, steadily and stealthily being chopped up and carted away in the still of the night.
If one sat still, one could almost hear the trees weep.
‘There they go again
Those brutal hands tearing at me
Ripping through my very soul…
Oh! The pain! It’s tearing me apart.
I was a friend to you once
I remember your first disappointment, don’t you?
You came and rested your tired head on my trunk,
And I consoled you when you were blue.
Then your family grew
And your children climbed happily all over me.
I endured it all with a smile and knew
What made you happy was good enough for me.
But now I’m old and weary
And my branches don’t bear fruit like they used to
Is that why you’re removing me from your life so mercilessly?
Because I’m of no more use to you?’
A new word had now started doing the rounds. Development.
And that brought in a new kind of man, called a ‘developer’. You know that breed with beady eyes and ingratiating smiles that will stop at nothing? Well, I was aghast and found myself totally helpless. So were my townsfolk, or now as they were called, city folk. The so-called developers uprooted trees, tore down old heritage buildings, dug up roads and pulled out electricity wires and the already non-existing street lights, with no intention of really finishing what they started, and left a trail of destruction behind. They ripped at my insides and if I could see myself in a mirror, I swear I would not be able to recognise myself.
The open sewers filled with water – dirty or clean, flowing or stagnant, brought with them another menace…mosquitoes, which in turn brought along with them fatal diseases like malaria, dengue and one with a real fancy name – Chikungunya.
I watched helplessly as my people succumbed to these diseases while the ‘Powers that be’ did their two-penny bit by dashing off messages on WhatsAap saying that all houses must be kept clean to rid them of mosquitoes. If I had a voice I would be shouting from the rooftops, ‘Can’t you see, the houses are clean. It’s the roads and public areas which are filthy and unkempt, which are breeding these deadly insects.’
Strangely, I can’t help but wonder why the ‘powers that be’ are immune to these mosquitoes. And then it hits me! What’s that they say about mosquitoes only getting attracted to sweet blood?!
Going back to fairy tales, remember ‘Snow White and the Seven Dwarves?’ The wicked stepmother asks her magic mirror who was the fairest in the land and it would reply that she was the fairest.
Well, if I had a magic mirror, the question I would ask it is, who was the ugliest and of course I know the answer.
‘You,’ it would reply.
‘Without a doubt, you’.
I am crushed. I find myself helpless, confused, bewildered, alarmed, fearful…and if there are any more synonyms, add them to the list.
I don’t see any respite. I have lost my identity.
This sweet little fairy tale has turned sour and how…
With no happy ending in sight.
(Ratna Manucha is an award-winning author of fact, fiction and text books for children and young adults)
