Talking Shop: Summer of '69

"Perfection is ugly. Somewhere

in the things humans make,

I want to see scars, failure,

disorder and even distortion"

— Yohji Yamamoto

Let's lay to rest the outbursts above for a bit, kneel at the feet of humility and share points of import, even if I appear to have lost faith in my first few words. For once, let's be flippant, yet messianic. Far more enervating things happened in the 1960s than Bryan Adams shared in his classic Summer of '69. I was not born yet, but my most important 1960s' event was that my father found a beautiful lady and tied the deadly knot that engorges all males for a bit and then chastises them for life. Importantly, India was invaded by the Chinese in 1962. Most critically, I was born in the summer of 1969.

Back to the then-Chinese (today's are no different, it would appear), their transgressions were possible only because road connectivity in the region was well-nigh non-existent. It was this that spurred India to build roads across our formidable mountains so that we could stare the enemy in the face and outfox him. These Army-only roads were not made for tourism, they were sculpted for war. They stretched two ways—from Manali to New Delhi and from Leh to Manali—to bolster a retaliatory, protective and rambunctious war machine.

Today, it is time to forget Inky, Pinky and Ponky, since the father and his famed donkeys have all passed. Let's instead focus on the real and targeted objective, that we wanted our trucks and tanks to reach and repel anyone who tried to occupy our impenetrable mountain passes and higher regions. Thousands upon thousands died in the building of these roads—the very same roads on which today's modern toads are fined for dangerous driving, drinking and even dancing under the influence of Bacchus. We seem to have either forgotten history, or and are making a sordid mockery of our past.

Remembering history

Learning about and appreciating the hardships and misery that our past generations went through, withstood and conquered would surely make us better souls today, perhaps even soften the hardness that has now crept into our souls and veins. In today's hurly-burly, let's remember that my grandfather and grandmother, as also yours, used to walk from Leh to Manali and then from Manali to New Delhi, as there was no other option. What steel were they made of and how waxy are we, in a very shameful comparison? It took the Chinese invasion of India in 1962 to goad and coerce the then Indian Government to up the ante and make road connectivity a critical objective.

Thus it was that the construction of the Manali-Leh highway began in 1964, as the only other option to get to the higher Himalayas then was to travel through Srinagar, even then an embroiled place. Similar to what happened in the near-foothills of Himachal Pradesh in Barog (more on that in a bit), construction of the road in a terrible terrain was started from both sides simultaneously; Manali-Ladakh and Manali-Delhi, to finish it in quick time. The route has five high passes and the work cost us plenty, both in financial resources and human losses, especially as work could only go on for six months in any year, given the sub-zero temperatures of the harsh winters when the passes were snowed out.

The road was finally opened in 1972, when I turned 3. I am oft-mentioning years. Well, this is only because through all this time, I have seen a meltdown of values, as also our conviction and stature as a nation and brethren. A nation that repeatedly repelled deadly forces 60-plus years back and always bounced back—despite its scant resources and wherewithal—is now a pitiable reflection of what we once were. Remember Balraj Sahni in 'Waqt' (1965), crooning his heart out to Achala Sachdev in Aye Meri Zohra Zabeen, Tujhe Malum Nahi? That was India. Look at today's Bharat. We have prospered and have high-rises and multiplexes. We have private aircraft and SUVs that often run down people for the fun of it. We have 'golgappas' and 'chooran' which cost a 100 times what they did when I first relished them.

Back to the roads—in 1989, when I turned 20 years old, the Ladakh road was thrown open to the public and Leh was born. Since then, we have been trying our very best to turn it into another Shimla, Mussoorie and Nainital, yet another concrete jungle.

Why this torrid lesson?

The verbiage is tough and less-than-malleable; that's perhaps because I am too, as we have forgotten where we stem from. Any branch of a tree can only flourish if the stem is constant. We seem to be hell-bent upon uprooting our very stem. Our new-found economic affluence is deadly, a mental pyorrhoea that is taking a toll on our values and beliefs. Riches and financial empowerment have to be tenable last, else they will be unsustainable. Too much philosophy, you say? I agree, so let's talk facts and figures.

These are easy and need no creative writing skills. High-rises, fancy apartments, swanky cars and glitzy hotels are no good when 80 per cent of our people are being free-fed because they can't fend for themselves. For this mediocrity, there is no daal makhani, butter chicken, paneer masala or popcorn. It cannot be palatable when the person who tills and toils for months to produce basic foodgrain earns Rs 27 per day. Our children and their own will never be 'educated' or our health system ever be optimal when teachers and doctors in state-run facilities are paid a pittance, or not at all for months. We are sinking as a people and that bothers me, in the post-summer of 2022.

We are headed the Barog way. I did promise that I will explain. Tasked with building a tunnel on the Kalka-Shimla toy train route, a British army engineer called Colonel Barog miscalculated and started boring from both sides simultaneously to save time (much like the Delhi-Ladakh road). When the two sides of the tunnel did not align, at all, he was censured and fined Re 1. Humiliated, Barog walked to the mouth of that very tunnel with his dog and shot himself.

Oddly enough, the Colonel was buried there itself, not in Dagshai, Solan, Kasauli or Subathu. While details are since translucent, local lore has it that Barog's grave is now 'ghosted'. A similar ghosting is happening now in our land. Stefan Molyneux once said: "The greater the gap between self-perception and reality, the more aggression is unleashed on those who point out the discrepancy." We need to learn, perhaps even from soothsayers, and not get swayed by today's fundamentalist mentalist wanderers. Think about it. We are creating multiple chasms, ones that we may never be able to fill or make tenable for future generations. Ab kya karein?

The writer is a veteran journalist and communications specialist. He can be reached on [email protected]. Views expressed are personal