VERVEMAGAZINE.IN 91FEATURES | MUSINGSA
t some point we all need to get away from the chaos
of the city. Sometimes, that place is a dense
thicket or an open expanse. In my city it is at
the water’s edge. The water here is not silent,
although it induces a kind of silence. It is a place
of escape, and also a place of homecoming. A bubble in a
flood of endless noise.
Here, in Mumbai, as in many other places, people seek out
the ocean. There is something in the experience of water, of
being surrounded by or close to it, that alleviates the tedium of
daily existence. By the water’s edge one often feels both calm
and invigorated — away from the crowds but simultaneously
united with some larger force.
This phenomenon is a precious gift because the seaside is
one of the only truly open stretches within a city of 240 lakh
people, and even more so over the last couple of decades as
green spaces continue to shrink. In the mornings, walkers and
joggers use the length of promenades and tracks to set the
pace for the day ahead. In the evenings, families populate the
beaches and lovers perch on the rocks by the tide pools. By
night, smatterings of lonesome folks and after-dinner ramblers
stroll along the shore, waiting to cool off before heading home.
Even though human settlements have always been founded
on the shores of riverbanks, by lakes and on oceanfronts, Indian
cities have particularly complex relationships with water. More
often than not, it is taken for granted. The narrow meandering
coast of Mumbai is not suited to large gatherings or boisterous
crowds. It facilitates an escape or fulfils a personal purpose —
to walk, exercise and aim for a bit of self-improvement. But
most of the sea is not conducive to swimming, so we come to
the water’s edge for retreat rather than recreation.
Another case in point is Delhi’s Yamuna River, which seems
more like a forgotten relative than the raison d’etre of the
capital. It is ignored at the best of times and is too dangerously
polluted to be a site for any kind of activity. The once-vibrant
river is so thoroughly avoided by every kind of resident and
visitor that it may as well not exist.
Contrast the Yamuna River’s surroundings to Chennai’s
Marina Beach, where the vibe is leisurely and unhurried. A
wide and unwavering natural waterfront, it is a communal space
that accommodates families and festive groups. Though the
water is unsuited to swimming, the strand is a safe stretch
of 12 kilometres, where people walk, play a spot of cricket,
sample street food or dip a toe in the water. Tourists, locals and
children of all ages assemble here in the evenings. Everyone
is well-behaved and generally quite civilized. On the flat, bare
sands every activity is a public one, and society comes together
on the beach, as if on the commons or the maidans.
I suspect that the planners of Ahmedabad’s riverfront had
hoped to achieve a comparable atmosphere of congeniality
on the Sabarmati’s banks, but the ambience is, well, lacking.
It doesn’t have the charisma of the seaside or the charm
of old river towns like Varanasi. The perfect geometry of
the development, set out with exacting intentions and
programmed by the municipal authorities, results in a flat
experience that encourages only a demure stroll rather
than conviviality. Apart from a few families on weekends,
determined walkers pace the banks in the morning and sparse
groups of youngsters hang out there at night. For the rest
of the time, the riverfront wears a forlorn look. Activity
stagnates much like the barely-flowing river that is too
controlled. When the experience of it is too structured, water
loses its magnetic appeal.
As contrived as Ahmedabad’s riverfront is, it is still a valuable
space, much like Chennai’s beach and Mumbai’s moody
coast. In India, our civic authorities treat waterfronts more as
boundaries between ourselves and the forces of nature and
less as organic spaces for healing and release. In Mumbai — the
city reclaimed from the sea — this territory is constantly being
negotiated through urban development projects, the latest of
which are the coastal road and an extended sea link. Through
a combination of infrastructure schemes, a vast swathe of the
Western seaboard will be ‘developed’. Is the private transport
of a few individuals more important than an entire city’s
relationship with the sea? Where will we go when the traffic has
erased our experience of water? Will it suffice to look at the
ocean across a 4-lane motorway? How do we claim our right to
the water’s edge before it is too late?
A few weeks ago I was overwhelmed by the thought that I
would lose the sound of crashing waves to the noise of blaring
traffic. I found myself on the Bandra Bandstand promenade.
I faced the sea, dangled my legs over the edge of a concrete
wall and turned my back on the city. As I opened up to the
expanse in front of me, the density of the city fell away. My
eyes had not embraced this kind of distance – not since I had
been here last. I took in the salty air. If the sea is not mine for
much longer, I thought to myself, I must take in as much of it
as I can now. Soon, I will have to let it go.