Every time I hit a pothole; I feel I’ve just had a close encounter with a badly behaved asteroid. It jumps at my car without warning, crashes into my suspension system, and leaves me muttering words unfit for Sunday sermons. And while my poor vehicle groans from its underbelly, somewhere a government or municipal engineer sits sipping tea.
Last year, while holidaying in England, Scotland, and Ireland, we drove thousands of miles, through rain, mist, fog, and even sunshine—yes, they occasionally have that too. We journeyed across hills and dales, towns and villages, and not once—let me repeat—not once, did I see a flooded road or a pothole plotting revenge. And it's not as if the rain in Britain is genteel and poetic. No sir, it pours. It pummels. It lashes. But the roads? Smooth as a politician’s promise before elections.
Why?
It’s not because the British have stumbled upon some magical tar that we haven’t discovered. But the difference, my dear reader, is supervision. That’s the word. Supervision, like a strict Indian mother-in-law keeping an eye on her new daughter-in-law. Their engineers there watch like hawks. They measure the slope, study the drainage, and make sure water doesn't get a chance to settle and meditate in the middle of the road.
Every single British road I drove on was like a shallow tent—sloped ever so gently from the middle downwards. The rain obediently rolled off the surface and into neatly designed side drains, without once considering setting up residence on the road.
Here, in our beloved land, we build roads that are less inclined to drain water and more inclined to hoard it. We make water-beds, not roads. The moment it rains, the street outside my building becomes Lake Monsoon. Ducks could take swimming lessons, and cars transform into amphibians.
And yet—yet!—our engineers draw their salaries. Some retire with handsome pensions and are respectfully addressed as “Sir.”
I say, let’s make them answerable.
If a newly constructed road floods or potholes emerge before a monsoon has even properly flexed its muscles, freeze the engineer’s salary. If he’s retired, pause the pension. Let him face the potholes on foot. Only then will we get roads we can actually drive on, not navigate like an obstacle course in a reality show.
Also, let’s send these gentlemen to live in our own army cantonments for a week. Let them study those roads—made with less drama, less money, but more pride. If you've driven through Navy Nagar in Mumbai, you’ll know what I mean. Even a cyclone wouldn’t shake those roads.
These engineers don’t need more seminars. They need consequences.
Until then, fellow citizens, drive slow, steer around the craters, and remember—every pothole is not just a dent in the road, it’s a monument to our silence, and a medal pinned on the chest of those who failed us..!
