The minister leaned back in his oversized chair, lifted his cup of tea and smiled.
A terrified official burst into the room.
"Sir, another bridge has developed dangerous cracks."
The minister took a leisurely sip.
"So?"
"People are furious, Sir."
"So?"
"They're asking who is responsible."
The minister laughed.
"Responsible? Who's going to ask me? Who's left to question me? There's no opposition in the House. They have only fifty seats. Even if they make a noise, we just have to whisper, and that will be louder than the noise they make! Ha, ha, ha!"
The official hesitated.
"But Sir, the roads..."
"What about them?"
"They're full of potholes."
"They'll drive around them."
"The floods, Sir?"
"They'll wade through them."
"The broken footpaths?"
"They'll jump over them."
"The bridge to Pune?"
"They'll take another route."
"And the accountability, Sir?"
The minister reached for another biscuit.
"My dear fellow, accountability only exists when there's a strong enough opposition to demand it."
If that conversation sounds ridiculous, my dear reader, perhaps the joke is on us.
Take a drive through Mumbai.
Our roads no longer resemble roads. They resemble patchwork quilts stitched together by a tailor who ran out of cloth halfway through the job. Every few metres, there is another patch, another bump, another pothole large enough to qualify for municipal status.
The rains arrive, and the roads perform their favourite magic trick.
They disappear.
Cars become boats. Motorcyclists become divers. Pedestrians become long jump champions as they leap over puddles, wondering whether the next step lands on solid ground or inside an open manhole.
Every few weeks, another bridge develops cracks. Another flyover needs urgent repairs. Another expensive project begins behaving like milk left out in the sun.
Immediately, the familiar ritual begins.
Experts arrive wearing serious expressions.
Committees are formed.
Reports are promised.
Press conferences are held.
And the potholes remain exactly where they were, probably growing larger because nobody has disturbed them.
The tragedy is not merely that things are collapsing.
The tragedy is that accountability has collapsed along with them.
Democracy was never meant to end on polling day. It was meant to continue every day thereafter, with governments being questioned, ministers being challenged, and officials knowing that somebody, somewhere, is watching.
But for that, your watchful eye was needed. You had to see that cheating did not take place. Money was not paid to voters under the guise of various schemes.
But you did not, and when that disappears, complacency moves into the minister's office, puts its feet on the table, pours itself a cup of tea and says, "Who's going to question me?"
That, perhaps, is the biggest pothole of them all.
Because when nobody asks questions, even the potholes start laughing.
Can you hear them, mouths wide open, laughing at you?