Dug Roads, Farmer and Imbalance

The dawn broke gently over Mysore, casting a soft golden hue across the city. As was my routine, I awoke early, the crisp morning air invigorating my senses. Accompanied by my loyal dog, I embarked on our customary walk, the familiar rhythm of our steps a quiet prelude to the day. Upon returning home, I prepared to drive my son to his college, a ritual that had become a cherished part of our mornings. As we set off, I decided to engage him in a lighthearted challenge, introducing him to the concept of an oxymoron, those peculiar phrases where contradictory terms coexist, like "bittersweet" or "deafening silence." I encouraged him to memorize a few examples, promising a reward if he could recite them back to me later. With a spark of determination in his eyes, he accepted the challenge, adding that he would make his own way home, perhaps to linger with friends or savor the independence of a bus ride. His college, a mere three kilometers from our home, was close enough for such small acts of autonomy.

After dropping him off at the college gates, I steered my scooter toward a familiar tea stall, craving the warmth of a morning cup. The journey, however, was interrupted by a sight all too common in Mysore: a road torn open, its surface scarred by the relentless digging of private companies laying cables, pipes, or waterlines. These companies, driven by profit, seldom bother to restore the roads they disrupt, leaving behind rough patches and heaps of displaced earth. The roads, like silent sufferers, bear the wounds of neglect, their uneven surfaces a testament to unfinished work. It’s as if the streets themselves cry out, their pleas unheard by those who prioritize convenience over care. This neglect is a bitter pill for the public to swallow, forced to navigate the chaos left in the wake of such indifference.

As I rode past my son’s college, I noticed a particularly egregious pile of mud strewn across the road, kicked up by passing vehicles into clouds of dust. In this tropical climate, where the wind is ever eager to play its part, the dust danced mockingly, as if taunting the city’s inhabitants. The wind, indifferent to human plight, seemed to say, “I am but a force of nature; it is your folly that leaves this dust free to roam.” Yet, who has time to protest? The morning is a whirlwind of duties—parents ferrying children to school, workers rushing to earn their daily bread, vendors distributing newspapers, and countless others caught in the hustle of survival. The municipal corporation, burdened by its own constraints, turns a blind eye, while private companies wash their hands of responsibility once their cables are laid. The result is a cityscape marked by carelessness, where the needs of the many are overshadowed by the priorities of the few.

Further along my route, I passed a large junction and caught sight of a school, a beacon of hope for Mysore’s middle and lower-middle-class families. Named after a mighty river that originates in Coorg and flows into the Bay of Bengal, this institution stands as a lifeline for those who cannot afford private education. Its reputation is well-earned, serving as a landmark for city buses that ferry passengers to and fro. Yet, in a twist of irony, the school shares its boundary with a burial ground, its rear windows opening directly onto this somber space. The burial ground, maintained by the municipal corporation, offers both electric cremation and traditional burial, a dual purpose that underscores its role in the cycle of life and death. Rumors, though unverified, suggest the ground is nearing capacity, filled with the remains of those who have passed. Adjacent to this rests an open sewage canal, its foul odor a stark contrast to the school’s mission of nurturing young minds. This juxtaposition struck me as a profound oxymoron: a place of learning, brimming with life, nestled against a site of eternal rest. It was a bittersweet tableau, where the pursuit of knowledge stood in the shadow of mortality.

Lost in these reflections, I accelerated my scooter, its engine humming smoothly. But as I approached a busy junction where four roads converged, a scene unfolded that jolted me from my thoughts. A farmer, his motorcycle laden with a towering pile of green grass for his cattle, was struggling to navigate the intersection. His urgency was palpable, his commitment to his animals evident in the careful balance he maintained. Yet, another rider, overtaking me from behind, showed no such consideration. With a callous disregard, he sped past the farmer, forcing him to brake abruptly. The farmer’s load wobbled precariously, and for a moment, it seemed he might lose control entirely. I slowed my scooter, unwilling to add to his burden, but the other rider pressed on, as if the farmer’s struggle was no concern of his. It was a glaring display of privilege, a stark reminder of the imbalance that pervades our society.

This incident, though fleeting, struck a deep chord. The farmer, like so many others, was caught in a system that offers little support. Urbanization has encroached upon the land, leaving scant space for grazing or growing fodder. With limited resources, he had no choice but to transport the grass on his two-wheeler, a practical yet perilous solution. The government, preoccupied with larger agendas, provides no facilities for such small-scale farmers, leaving them to fend for themselves. The rider who overtook him embodied a broader societal failing, a lack of empathy, a tendency to prioritize personal gain over collective well-being. It was a perfectly imperfect moment, a microcosm of the inequities that persist not only in Mysore but across the world.

I continued to my destination, settling into the familiar comfort of the tea stall. As I sipped my tea, the morning’s events lingered in my mind. The dug-up roads, the school beside the burial ground, the farmer’s struggle, all were threads in a larger tapestry of life in Mysore. Each scene carried its own story, its own oxymoron, reflecting the contradictions that define our existence. I invite you to share your observations, to consider the supply chain of responsibility behind such moments.

Who is accountable for the roads left unrepaired? For the farmers left unsupported? For the empathy that too often goes unpracticed? These are the questions that linger, like dust carried on the wind, waiting for someone to care enough to answer.