Joel Rai August 2, 2014 Last Updated at 00:19 IST
The year is 2034. I am on the Titanium Quadrilateral, on my way to one of the 100 special urban boroughs, or the so-called Smart Cities, conceived of two decades earlier by the government. A milestone tells me of my destination: Gyanpur 73, it says, is Ö310 km away. What the … ! But I needn’t have worried, because the next second we come to a smart, all-knowing road sign that says: “Regret not learning Vedic maths? Ö310 km = 17.6 km”.
On the outskirts of Smart City No 73, we are stopped by a robot, which for reasons I cannot fathom reminds me of Ramdev, the yoga guru of yore. “Kindly show your numbers,” it says in a metallic tone. We Indians are now required to have on our persons at all times our Aadhar number, National Population Registry number, Provident Fund Universal Account Number and our Single Demat Account number.
After scanning the numbers, Ramdev says, “Welcome to Gyanpur 73, citizen no 667,893,413. What work do you have here?” I had never had the time to visit Gyanpur, neither No 1 nor No 100 or any in between, because the Indian economy in the past two decades had grown in leaps and bounds, “at 21.367 per cent”, as our economists boasted at every forum, which meant we worked long and hard because the growth fuelled demand and demand had to be supplied. That’s seven days a week of work, with only a magnanimous employer sometimes giving employees 20 extra minutes to sleep on Saturdays. Every 12 years, we got a day off as special leave (in place of that antiquated cash recompense called “gratuity”), so here I am using that duodecennial day to tour a Smart City.
Ramdev smartly infers that I have come to Gyanpur 73 on no specific professional mission. “You can enjoy the day at the Adhikrit Water Park,” the metallic patois continues. “You will reach the park in 3 minutes, 27.7 seconds, I have reserved a ride for you there. In addition to your mandatory numbers, please present your Enjoyment Permit at the front desk. Enjoy yourself.”
The said facility is welcoming, happily painted as it is in a popular shade called “All-Embracing Saffron”. At the front desk it is not the girl who smiles at me, but the big vermillion bindi on her forehead. I think the bindi doubles up as a camera lens because I am given a ticket to Adhikrit Water Park with my face printed on it. The ticket says my turn will come at 2.23 pm and that I am to enter the water chute at an angle of 127 degrees to account for my slightly less than average body weight. The ticket also tells me the water will flow down at 42.67 kmph to complement my 61.2 kg frame’s gravitational pull and, thus, provide the most enjoyable slide down the water ride. The cost of the ticket is automatically deducted from my bank account, and its various components like entry free, GST and entertainment tax separately credited to different government accounts — all in a microsecond.
I am impressed. The Smart City amenities boggle the mind. People here walk, as advised, with a gait that is individually designed to conserve energy for each according to his morphology. Street graffiti consists of quadratic equations, which, I presume, keeps the grey cells ticking. Restaurants have security beepers that also scan the patrons’ girth and inform them of the maximum calories they will be served within. I look at my watch. I have three hours 26 minutes left to enjoy myself here. I better hurry. Even a second more than that in Gyanpur 73 and I will be hauled up by the Smart Police, and, in all probability, made to forfeit my next 12-year day off.
On the outskirts of Smart City No 73, we are stopped by a robot, which for reasons I cannot fathom reminds me of Ramdev, the yoga guru of yore. “Kindly show your numbers,” it says in a metallic tone. We Indians are now required to have on our persons at all times our Aadhar number, National Population Registry number, Provident Fund Universal Account Number and our Single Demat Account number.
After scanning the numbers, Ramdev says, “Welcome to Gyanpur 73, citizen no 667,893,413. What work do you have here?” I had never had the time to visit Gyanpur, neither No 1 nor No 100 or any in between, because the Indian economy in the past two decades had grown in leaps and bounds, “at 21.367 per cent”, as our economists boasted at every forum, which meant we worked long and hard because the growth fuelled demand and demand had to be supplied. That’s seven days a week of work, with only a magnanimous employer sometimes giving employees 20 extra minutes to sleep on Saturdays. Every 12 years, we got a day off as special leave (in place of that antiquated cash recompense called “gratuity”), so here I am using that duodecennial day to tour a Smart City.
Ramdev smartly infers that I have come to Gyanpur 73 on no specific professional mission. “You can enjoy the day at the Adhikrit Water Park,” the metallic patois continues. “You will reach the park in 3 minutes, 27.7 seconds, I have reserved a ride for you there. In addition to your mandatory numbers, please present your Enjoyment Permit at the front desk. Enjoy yourself.”
The said facility is welcoming, happily painted as it is in a popular shade called “All-Embracing Saffron”. At the front desk it is not the girl who smiles at me, but the big vermillion bindi on her forehead. I think the bindi doubles up as a camera lens because I am given a ticket to Adhikrit Water Park with my face printed on it. The ticket says my turn will come at 2.23 pm and that I am to enter the water chute at an angle of 127 degrees to account for my slightly less than average body weight. The ticket also tells me the water will flow down at 42.67 kmph to complement my 61.2 kg frame’s gravitational pull and, thus, provide the most enjoyable slide down the water ride. The cost of the ticket is automatically deducted from my bank account, and its various components like entry free, GST and entertainment tax separately credited to different government accounts — all in a microsecond.
I am impressed. The Smart City amenities boggle the mind. People here walk, as advised, with a gait that is individually designed to conserve energy for each according to his morphology. Street graffiti consists of quadratic equations, which, I presume, keeps the grey cells ticking. Restaurants have security beepers that also scan the patrons’ girth and inform them of the maximum calories they will be served within. I look at my watch. I have three hours 26 minutes left to enjoy myself here. I better hurry. Even a second more than that in Gyanpur 73 and I will be hauled up by the Smart Police, and, in all probability, made to forfeit my next 12-year day off.
