satire : Use and Throw

 

 

Two years. That’s all it took. A brand-new, Charcoal fresh, ribbon-cutting-worthy road—gone with the first rain. Washed away like it had been built of biscuits instead of bitumen.

 

Once upon a time, we used to take pride in things that lasted, we would flaunt-- this shoe has been with me for ten years! we’d boast, this wrist-watch belonged to my grandfather, still ticks perfectly, this fridge? Bought when I was in school. Works like new, and that old TV—twenty years and never once repaired. Those were badges of honour.

 

Now, welcome to the glorious consumer economy! Here, if your stuff doesn’t break, how will the new one sell? Either the product gives up on its own, or it starts throwing tantrums until you give up first. You finally sell it for scraps, surrender and buy a new one. And if it stubbornly refuses to die, advertisements come knocking: ‘Exchange offer! Old is boring, new offer is brought just for YOU!’

 

Today, TVs come in more varieties than potato chips—fat, slim, slimmer, plasma, L.E.D. and who knows what’s next, ‘see-through’ maybe. Even fridges have evolved like Pokémons. Back in the day, defrosting was a family event. Everything came out, the kitchen looked like a grocery shop exploded, we waited for the ice to melt while the fridge door was kept open, wiped every corner, and restocked—except for the mystery box at the back with something so old it had turned into a science experiment. Naturally, we got scolded for it—both when we were kids, and when we had kids of our own.

 

Slowly but surely, this “Use and Throw” philosophy spread everywhere. Plastic bottles, pens, watches, computers, even cars—nothing is made which is meant to last. Something breaks? Don’t fix it. Throw it. Replace it. Move on. The saddest part? This attitude of use n throw crept into our relationships too. Nobody remembers anyone unless they need something. And once the job’s done—poof! —you’re ghosted faster than a bad Tinder date. We’re friends? Only till we are of some utility to each other.

 

Gone are the days when selfishness was frowned upon. Now it’s considered wisdom. Parents teach their kids early: “Beta, learn to say no.” Books sell by the thousands—'How to Be Selfish and Still Loved’ Altruism? Out of fashion. It’s something NGOs do for photoshoots. The new mantra is: Me, mine, myself.

 

And now, the latest chapter in our grand policy of Use and Throw saga—a road that cost a whopping 430 crore rupees, built as a showcase for Indian excellence during the G20 Summit, gone within two monsoons. Some say it cost 420 crores, but the extra 10 were added to make the figure look respectable, just so the number didn’t sound like a scam.   Anyway, the summit’s over, the road served its purpose. Mission accomplished. ‘Use’ done, now let it be ‘thrown’ away.

 

 Why complain? How long do you want a road to last anyway? Not every builder is Sher Shah Suri, and not every highway can be the Grand Trunk Road. Besides, what about the economy? If roads don’t wash away, what will the contractors, engineers, labourers, and politicians do? Think of the poor tar industry! The road rollers, shovels, buckets, and tender forms will all gather dust. We are a poor nation we can’t afford this scenario.

 

So, the rain must come. Heavy, relentless, blessed rain! Farmers pray for gentle showers; the construction industry prays for a full-blown monsoon. Washed bridges, cracked pavements, crumbled walls—all signs of divine employment opportunities.

 

After all, destruction and reconstruction are part of nature’s cycle, aren’t they? Who are we? mere mortals! What locus-standi do we have to interfere with the sacred ‘Use and Throw’ philosophy of modern civilization?

 

Let it rain. Let it wash. Let it build again. After all, what’s life without recycling—of money, materials, and morals?