Editor,
Travel on the winding roads of Arunachal Pradesh to the plains of Assam, or land in the heart of the national capital, and the story remains tragically identical. A thick, choking haze of dust has become the defining feature of the Indian landscape.
In Likabali, Naharlagun, Guwahati, and Delhi alike, the vibrant colours of nature, the green of the grass, the brown of the bark, have been whitewashed by a relentless layer of dust.
This is not merely an aesthetic issue; it is a public health catastrophe of epic proportions. While the nation rightly mobilises resources to combat dengue, malaria, HIV and Corona, we seem utterly paralysed in the face of this airborne menace.
Medical science tells us the grim truth: the heavy metals and silica we inhale daily are not just causing temporary coughs; they are embedding themselves in our lungs and bloodstreams, effectively reducing the average life expectancy by 10 to 25 years. We are surviving, but we are dying faster.
The anguish of the common man is palpable. To walk just 100 metres on our roads is to invite a coating of filth upon one’s person. Yet, where is the accountability?
The role of a municipality is to ensure the livability of a town. The duty of the state and central governments is to protect the health of their citizens. On this front, they have failed spectacularly. There are no sprinklers, no mechanised sweeping, no regulation of construction sites, and zero urgency. The machinery of governance seems to have rusted shut, covered in the same dust that chokes its constituents.
It is a moment of profound despair when citizens realise that policy and governance have collapsed. We have reached a point where we no longer expect action from our leaders. We look instead to the clouds, praying for rain to wash away the poison. It is a damning indictment of our system that our only hope for breathable air lies in an act of god, because the government has proven itself hopeless.
Gedak Taipodia,
Kangku circle,
Lower Siang