Devangshu Datta: The end of innocence

WORM'S EYE VIEW

In the old days, it was a struggle getting through inner-city Madras to the suburb of Thiruvanmiyur. From there on, however, it was a clear run down the East Coast Road (ECR).

Not entirely clear, perhaps; the two-lane road was as chaotic and jam-packed as most stretches of the city. It carried trucks, buses and human-powered vehicles as well as oxcarts drawn by white beasts with lovingly pointed, brassbound horns. It took two hours to drive to Mahabalipuram riding clutch and brake continuously.

It was worth those two hours "" the journey gave you time to switch out of urban mode. The road ran through sleepy villages with thatched huts baking in the heat under tall palms. The sea sang somewhere yonder over the left shoulder. Anytime you felt like it, you could pull over and take a short walk to the beach. There would be a roadside bench with a mug of piping "sheet-coffee".

"Sheet-coffee" is still available on the ECR, of course. Any self-respecting roadside stall south of the Vindhyas sells coffee in sheets rather than mere cups.

It's something to do with the pouring technique. A tightly-coordinated roll of the wrists transfers fluid magically in horizontal sheets from coffee pot to insulated metal cup and saucer.

The new East Coast Road is broader and the traffic better. There are fewer ox-carts and more Marutis. If you slip out early, you get to Mahabalipuram in an hour.

It is a moot point whether that is long enough to get the toxins of Chennai out of your system. You will not leave Chennai behind. The thatched huts have been replaced by concrete structures. There is seamless mobile connectivity and an Internet cafe every couple of kilometres.

The wind no longer rustles through the palm trees because there are no palm trees left on the road. The sea's song can no longer be heard above the traffic. The beaches are marred by resorts, with in-your-face ads. Many of the roadside stalls have upgraded to restaurants with multi-cultural menus.

Much of the development has been slipshod. But every so often, you pass an enclave that rivals Jubilee Hills or Mehrauli in opulence. These are Panchayat areas well outside Chennai Municipality.

There are vast gated communities here, and rows of quasi-traditional bungalows as well as green and red castles out of Shrek. These places house multi-car families, people with alternate digs in Poes Gardens and even Pedder Road. Some residents are retirees; others commute daily to the fleshpots.

The bungalows are staffed by guard-dogs and the roads are patrolled by retired faujis. The local cablewallah provides broadband Internet and the news agents deliver The Economist. The garbage is collected from colour-coded bins where green is equal to biodegradable and red non-degradable.

The city slickers have provided employment and prosperity. They have fought battles with collectors and Panchayats to clean up their local enclaves. They have triggered the delivery of higher-quality services and education by their mere presence. By and large, they have been a force for good.

Most are deliriously happy to live here. Life is good "" much, much better than downtown. The breeze is clean, the temperature is lower. Above all, there's water. To somebody from Chennai that is important. Most Chennai-ites have the experience of lining up in the wee hours to collect water in buckets.

In fact, the development and relocation seems to have been driven by the need to bathe. Chennai is hollowing out for the same reasons that Fatehpur Sikri and Dowlatabad did.

Despite water-harvesting, and high-tech reverse-osmosis water-collection, the water table is dropping. Along the ECR, the sea has flowed in at several places to replace depleted groundwater.

Where old Madras was a provincial centre, Chennai is a bustling multi-cultural experience. But if Chennai cannot augment its water sources in sustainable fashion, it will soon turn into a ghost town. It will be an ecological disaster "" a place that grew too big for its boots.