Auto Expo Unvisited

(This piece was written in January 1998)

I was on top of the world. I had a good job, an apartment, two cars and a bunch of credit cards – all the benchmarks of success in this city of 13 million. My immediate irritation was my Gypsy, which was seven years old and not very pretty. The plan was to take the afternoon off, visit the Auto Expo in town and start thinking about a new set of wheels. I could afford one and felt I owed it to myself for putting in all those long hours at work.

Around 10 am I learnt that my colleague Sunil lost his ailing mother. A few of us rushed to the hospital and later accompanied Mataji’s body to Crematorium. The sights and events of the day were revealing in many respects.

Getting to the Electric Crematorium near ISBT from Vasant Vihar was a major hassle. The India Gate roundabout was closed to traffic due to Republic Day Parade rehearsals. We therefore decided to approach Ring Road via Mathura Road. It was a mistake. Everyone in Delhi appeared heading towards Pragati Maidan for the Auto Expo. People were driving their cars into traffic jams, spending hours getting there, then fighting over parking spaces, and for what? To go and buy more cars. But for the circumstances, my plans exactly.

Once at the Crematorium a brief puja was performed and the body submitted to the incinerator. There is only one Electric Crematorium for this vast metropolis, and even there, only one of the two ovens was working. Another body that came in later had to wait till the first one was done. Even after dying, Delhiites have to wait in a queue. Everyone waited and no one complained. After all, it is our national ethos. We do not work to our full potential and have a chalta hai attitude.

The two hour wait to collect the ashes was even more revealing. At the entrance of the Crematorium is a statue of Lord Shiva. And protecting it is an iron grill enclosure, with a lock at the gate. In this city, even Gods need protection. The scenery was rather bleak. This place overlooks the vast slums of the Jumna Pushta. The half-naked children playing in the vicinity of death had very little to live for. Yet, they were laughing. They often go to bed hungry, but they were cheerful. They have no clean drinking water and have not been vaccinated yet they survive. These are our models of Drawinian selection; they survive because they are the fittest. But as a society we have failed to provide them an education or a dream. And they will not forgive the likes of me for our selfishness and complacency.

There was still an hour to kill. A few metres from the Crematorium stood an innocent-looking room. A peek inside was horrifying. There were about haf a dozen dead bodies piled on top of each other. These were unclaimed bodies brought from hospital morgues and collected for a mass cremation every evening. Just then, a van pulled up with three more bodies, which were dragged out and dumped with the rest. These people must have been someone’s sons and daughters, fathers and mothers, brothers and sisters. Now they were reduced to a pile of bodies waiting for their date with the oven. They once had names. Today they were only a number and a statistic. They were only worth Rs. 40 a piece for the van driver. For him, the more the merrier.

Sunil walked out with the ashes in an earthen pot. It struck me that my existence was no more than a pot of ashes or a handful of dirt. Just then, the muezzin called the faithful to prayer, as if to remind me who really was in charge.

Driving home in the evening, I gave way to pedestrians and cyclists, and did not even get angry when a car with a “Montu di Gaddi” sign zipped across my driving path. Now the dents and scratches on my Gypsy do not matter.

And that Auto Expo got one less visitor.