If you've ever driven your hypothecated vehicle up a mountain road, you would have definitely turned around a corner to find those set of words staring back at you. Chances are, you get to see them around almost every bend. And after the first few run-ins, you don't even need to read the sign to know what it says. You just know. The familiar yellow tin sheet with black letters printed on them. Not hand-painted, mind you. Printed. A fact that never fails to get me imagining a factory somewhere in the country that churns out these signs in thousands, every day. Where workmen come every morning. Where the foreman is, stereotypically, a bully. And the factory owner, whose son is probably pursuing his civil engineering degree in some college in freezing, and recently capitalised, Russia, drives a third-hand 1970s Mercedes Benz. Diesel.
“Caution: Work in progress.” read the signs. And, involuntarily, you shift down to second gear and go easy on the accelerator. A compelling set of words.
And thank god for them. For, I am sure many an axle or the odd plains-dwelling vacationer's life has been saved by those words of caution thoughtfully put up by our friendly Border Road Task Force.But why is it always “Caution: Work in progress”? As long as I can remember there have been over 67 such signs along the road that connects Shillong to Dimapur. They used to be hand-painted when I was a kid. Now they are printed.
Sixty eight years of my life has gone by and the work is still in progress.There used to be a time I could get angry about it. My sister says I would spend an entire winter vacation criticising the Border Road people for not moving their collective backsides up the hill side. But nowadays, I just sigh and get philosophical about it. I guess it's easier to be charitable, to find meaning in lack of progress or even construct a counter-argument in defence of failure when you're just two years away from seventy.
Now I just try and imagine what the thousands of people who work for the Border Road Task Force would do if there actually came a time when all the roads were fixed and they had to take those signs off.
What would they do if, one day, they woke up at the crack of dawn, like they have always done for so many years, and found that their reason for existence no longer existed? Would the migrant Nepali stone-cutter and the tar-laying Bangladeshi refugee casually drop their chisels and shovels and start walking home? Would the Malyalee bulldozer driver quietly park his vehicle on the side of the road and wait for a bus to take him back to the village he came from?Or would they all throw themselves off the very cliffs they had carved roads out of?
Uh oh.
There's one thing I just can't stand and that's the sight of a guest holding an empty glass. Let me get you another drink. Young man. I insist.
Goes down smooth, doesn't it? By the way, it isn't Scotch. Really, it isn't. Bir Bahadur, our cook, makes it in that hut. He says he learnt to make it from his father who was taught by a Scotsman in a trench in Kohima. It's quite an interesting story, you know.
Old Sher Bahadur, Bir's father, and a twenty-eight year old 'gora' captain were pinned down by Japanese machine gun fire for three whole days. To stop themselves from losing their nerve they kept talking to each other, non-stop. They spoke of their wives. Their villages. Religion. The enemy. The inter-regiment boxing matches. Nonsense. Anything. They kept talking, just to stay sane. Finally, at noon on the third day, when the young 'gora' ran out of conversation, he started telling Sher Bahadur how his family had made whisky for centuries back in old Glen.. Glen-something...
Do I believe the story?
Well, this is really good whisky.
And the story, well, it is a good story.
Who jumped off the cliff?Oh! I am extremely sorry. My wife calls me the malfunctioning radio, changing stations by myself. We hardly get guests these days, you know. Thanks to the insurgency problem. And when a rare-vacationer like you comes along, he has to suffer my desire to talk...non-stop...about everything...all at one go!
Now where was I?
Aah, yes. I was saying I have come to accept the fact... No, that is incorrect. I have come to understand and believe why any piece of work must never be completed but must always be work in progress.Imagine what the people who work for the Border Roads would do, if all the landslides were fixed? For that matter, what would the UN Peace Keeping Force do, if every strife-torn region in the world embraced peace overnight? If Osama was caught or killed tonight, how would Halliburton keep their stockholders happy? If every disease had a cure, what would pharmaceutical companies do? If every nation in the world trashed their weapons, what would arms-merchants do? If the ozone hole was stitched, what would environmentalists do? Without strife, war and WMDs, there is no reason for the UN. Without the violation of human rights, there is no reason for the UNHRC. Without Shell, there is no reason for Greenpeace.
When you eliminate the reasons for their being, you force them to create new reasons to prolong their existence. They have to. For completion is suicide. I'd rather their work remain work in progress.
One more for the road?
And another one for the ditch?
Aha! I must tell Bir Bahadur he has a new fan!
