A roof with no view

Vantage points in the city nowadays offer only a sad sight — concrete eating into the green

Written by Anees Salim | Updated: January 16, 2015 12:50 am
building-l When I was old and bold enough to leave home, I travelled from one city of my dreams to another. But I found them all completely nightmarish.

Vantage points in the city nowadays offer only a sad sight — concrete eating into the green, writes Anees Salim

I had a strange way of sizing up cities. I did it from rooftops. I grew up in a small town, and I grew up dreaming about it developing into a big city with skyscrapers lining the streets. I used to go up to the terrace of my home occasionally to see how fast the town was upgrading itself to the next level. Back then, towns grew at a snail’s pace and every time I cared to check, the rooftop had the same view to offer, of a street lined with squat buildings, trees standing in neat rows and thin traffic flowing silently past a small roundabout. What a depressing sight!

One of the myths of my childhood was that cities held the key to happiness and adventure. I believed that behind every door in the city there lived a happy family, and I wasted no opportunity to visit the nearest city, which was about an hour or so away by train.

Every time I visited my relatives in the city, whom I revered and envied for the geographical advantage they enjoyed, I had a new reason to hate my town. Every visit made me love the urban space more, and I found it hard to go back to my small town, and it unaccountably pained me to watch the city racing away from train windows.

So, let down by the crawling pace of my sleepy little town, I grew up dreaming of escaping to cities that never slept. When I was old and bold enough to leave home, I travelled from one city of my dreams to another. But I found them all completely nightmarish. From rooftops, each city appeared to be an overcrowded ferry, swaying violently and threatening to sink. If my hometown disappointed me with its smallness, these big cities left me feeling choked, and I ran right back to my town and surrendered to its slow pace and quiet ways. Years later, my profession of advertising forced me to settle in Kochi, the most vibrant city in Kerala, a city that was begging to be recognised as metropolitan.

In advertising, one of the first things you learn about Kerala is that there is no urban-rural segregation. They call it one big metropolis. Where one city ends, the next begins. Every brochure and advertisement that tries to sell industrial parks to investors sings praises of this particular virtue.

Every now and then, I hear my friends complain about this city. They are people who don’t live in it any more. They live in more happening places in India or in different corners of the world, thanks to their thriving professions. But they have roots here and they are genuinely concerned about the city they grew up in. One among them is one of India’s best known book editors. Born and brought up mostly in this port city, she has been living in Delhi long enough to think wistfully of Kochi and its lush green settings. The last time we met, she complained about how fast the greenery was being erased from this city and its suburbs. On every visit, she sees less of green, more of concrete.

Another person who perpetually complains about the city is a former colleague who comes down from the US every second year for a month-long holiday. On his last vacation, he mocked the city for the assortment of languages it spoke: Bengali, Hindi, Nepali, Oriya, Manipuri and Malayalam. He said the man at the carwash spoke broken Hindi, the shop assistant at the supermarket spoke Bengali and broken Malayalam, the lady at the laundry spoke Tamil and nothing else, and the waiters at his favourite Chinese restaurant took orders in broken English with a strong Nepali accent. True, Kochi speaks many languages, but that is only expected from the biggest city in a state with a huge migrant population that is growing by the day. It is estimated that more than 25 lakh domestic migrant labourers are working in Kerala and their remittances to their home states amount to Rs 2,00,000 crore.

I have many more friends who are bent on adding to the list of Kochi’s shortcomings, or genuinely concerned about the pace of its growth. But when was the last time I looked at this city the way I used to look at others? I hadn’t had a bird’s eye-view of my city in years. I had been driving around it, walking its streets, going to its malls, cursing its sluggish traffic and swearing at the public administration. But I had long taken it for granted.

A few months ago, I went up to the terrace of the 14-floor building I live in to have a look at the city. The city had lost its overtone of green. With tower cranes, clusters of tall buildings and large areas of land cleared for construction, it had come to resemble those teeming places I had run away from. And it was not stopping there, I could see the city slowly reaching out to the distant line of greenery.

I have the same kind of attachment to my hometown my friends have for the city they grew up in, and when the city gets on my nerves, I drive down the “seamless metropolis” called Kerala to the town I once hated for being so small and insignificant. But things have changed there too. It is no longer small or simple. I complain to my childhood friends about the quick urbanisation of the town much the same way my friends complain about the changes happening in the city. It is a cycle.

On my last visit, I decided to look at the town the way I had not in what could be two decades or more. I climbed two flights of stairs to my childhood vantage point and faced the town. I could no longer see the town square or the traffic circle. The squat buildings had grown tall while I had been away. What a depressing sight!

Salim, based in Kochi, is the author of ‘Vanity Bag’ Series concluded

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  1. A
    Anoop
    Jan 17, 2015 at 6:21 pm
    superb piece! I loved your style of writing
    Reply
    1. S
      Subhash Bennur
      Jan 16, 2015 at 12:47 pm
      Anees, This is a natural corollary. Because unlike last century where Agriculture contributed 90% of the GDP of India in the beginning of the century, gradually tapering off to 14% today in India. We are 125 cr people and there is an opposition indirectly to family planning. It is growing and our politicians call it Demographic dividend prompted by none other than Nandan Nilekani! My dear Anees, while I sympathize with you our country side will not be able to provide jobs to lacs of youngish things coming out of universities. I do wish to live in small towns/Villages but it is not possible because there is no mans of earning. In fact if yoiu come to karnataka most of the marriagable girls want to get married to boys in Bangalore but not to a rich farmer in the country side. These are shape of things to come. Instead of lamenting via blogs, could you write on how to build smaller towns between Bangalore and mysore with quick train facilities so that Bangalore does not grow. This is the solution. No young boy or girl wants to stay back in villages/towns because there is no means for his living. This is 21st knowledge century and in this century knowledge has made billionaires and hence the attraction of big cities.
      Reply
      1. K
        Kuldeep Saxena
        Jan 16, 2015 at 4:13 pm
        Yes a fine write up and definitely we have been compromising in the name of development we have been compelled to s out the Nature far behind in our race and even in the wild chase we are compromising with cement structures all around us nobody is keen to talk or know about nature and we are just ready to murder nature in the name of development.
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        1. D
          Dhoklastellar Fafda®™
          Jan 17, 2015 at 5:07 am
          This article needs more depth. Nostalgia alone cannot account for 95% of it.
          Reply
          1. K
            Kss Pillai
            Jan 16, 2015 at 7:05 am
            It is sad but as someone said about revolution, if you do not change your shirt to suit your growing body, it will simply burst. With the rapid increase in potion, the villages and green pastures are bound to be replaced by the concrete jungle. When I recently visited the river ghat where I used to take my twice daily bath during my childhood, I found it in shambles and unrecognizable; was told that nobody came there for bathing any more since every household had a bathroom and modern cars were speeding on the bridge across the river,which was built just above the bathing ghat!
            Reply
            1. P
              Pooja S
              Jan 16, 2015 at 5:29 am
              I can imagine how you feel sir. I was thrilled when as a student at Kariavattom Campus TVM, we heard that a stadium was going to come up there where the National Games would be hosted.But to my chagrin, the cost of that "progress" was the greenery that sheltered a huge area near our campus....Heartbreaking to those of us who loved Kariavattom for its green beauty..
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                S Radha
                Jan 22, 2015 at 1:29 pm
                The trips I made between Tirpunithura and Ambalamedu in 1980s on the rain-soaked roads seemed just a dream when I visited the place again in 1999. I had nothing to show to my newly married wife when we went on a honeymoon and she thought I had imagined a paradise. When I become wistful about the cities of 1970s and 1980s, I replay movies of that time.
                Reply
                1. S
                  S Radha
                  Jan 22, 2015 at 1:29 pm
                  The trips I made between Tirpunithura and Ambalamedu in 1980s on the rain-soaked roads seemed just a dream when I visited the place again in 1999. I had nothing to show to my newly married wife when we went on a honeymoon and she thought I had imagined a paradise. When I become wistful about the cities of 1970s and 1980s, I replay movies of that time.
                  Reply
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