Odd or even, carpooling can breathe new life into Delhi
What is the abiding memory you have of early childhood outside your home?
For me, it was holding hands. Mother, grandmother, father, uncle-a whiff of saree-pallu starch, the clatter of bangles when the hand was extended down to a three footer, a bejewelled hand being held out, or in my father's case, a big pinky finger being held onto. I remember the rush of breath when the big roads came, and my guardians would unfailingly push me to the side, placing themselves between the traffic and me.
In my mind-map (and theirs') certain roads were colony roads where we could walk with less worry, and hands were held lightly, swingingly. When the big, bad "main road" came, I was never allowed to place a single step without being held urgently on to, and a pall seemed to fall over both guardian and child: we were in the presence of Big Cars, and all laughter was suspended. Like the adult world of worry, deadlines, and hurry, suddenly everything was deathly serious. The guardian's temper was frayed, her head snapped more alertly at loud sounds and incoming traffic, her fingers dug into mine.
As I grew older, the Main Road came closer. The smaller colony roads, the sort that went to colony parks, mother dairys, bird feeding areas, all got populated with cars. One day we realised with mounting dismay,that the quiet colony roads in our little colony in North Delhi were full of passing cars that were not coming to the colony. They were using the smaller roads to bypass the main-road traffic, thus creating a whole new network of main-roads. The cars just kept coming, noisily, without any consideration of older ways of life, and we were part of the car invasion.
Delhi University, a favourite haunt - the place which gave me my undergraduate degree, and the university I teach in today - once a tree-lined, quiet, quirky place defined by its unhurried pace; is now full of lines of cars passing through; just passing through, not coming to the university; like so-many trucks which use Delhi's roads but have nothing to do with Delhi. Students sprint more urgently across the roads now, chased like rabbits by Vikram vehicles, sedans and hatchbacks with loud music spilling out. The honking is raccous, because the cars don't want to wait for the cycle-rickshaws, and it does not matter that there are students in those rickshaws, students who by now are probably sick of the honking and desperately want cars themselves.
For four days now, Delhi: the city I grew up in, and the city that I have witnessed changing over the years - is different. The Odd-Even formula was promised as a means to tackle pollution.
Whether this in itself is enough to tackle pollution or not needs to be seen. But the most physical manifestation of this move is taking thousands and thousands of cars off the road. Now, main roads have begun to look like colony roads. I saw pedestrians crossing without looking haunted. I saw a bit of blue sky and a bit of grey tarmac, both of which have been sorely missing from our metropolitan experience.
Apart from bringing adulthood in the form of main-roads to children's lives, the invasion of cars in our lives also changed another aspect: it changed the way we viewed time. For generations that grew up in the nineties, most middle class families had a single car each. Some were Maruti 800s, many were Premiere Padminis. Cars were a luxury commodity, and that car was part of a social ecosystem.
Father or mother, whoever drove the car, would ask if any other family member needed to be dropped anywhere on the way to work. On weekends, other family members, even neighbours, were given lifts. It was absolutely dandy to wait ten minutes, fully attired, in the drawing room for someone else; to wait outside a tuition centre in a hot car; to wait for the neighbour's kids at a school-bus stop, especially when board exam extra-classes were held during summer break.
Like first sets of colossal black and white TV's that were shared between families, sometimes for Chitrahaars, most often for cricket matches, cars were shared too, with a minimum of gratuitousness. As more cars came in-as even college students had cars to attend tuition and extra classes-much of this sharing stopped. Today, for many of us, it may seem intolerable to wait a single minute for anything, because we have to go where we have to go. Giving lifts, sharing cars, even asking a family member or neighbour what their plans are, are not needed and almost wholly forgotten.
As everyone has mobility, and a mobility that is personal, perhaps we are also becoming more selfish. But seeing Delhi over the past weekend gives me hope that we can move towards a more slow but ultimately more meaningful way of life, like many great cities all over the world. Like cities in Europe that respect bicyclists - who are slow but conscientious, cities which invest in pedestrian walkways and public spaces that foster safe and gender-friendly commutes and walks.
Like Vienna, which has several no-vehicle zones where children can be children; and adults can be less hassled. Like many countries over the world with islands as tourist destinations which are strictly car-free.
In Delhi, we can reclaim a better way of life by sharing cars. Undoubtedly, this will slow us down. But perhaps it will also give us a sprinkling of childhood, a hint of patience, a whisper of fun, and a sliver of stamina.