The Wrath of Wrappers

Cleanliness, they say, is next to godliness. But judging by the litter on the roads, fields, and that one mysterious spot behind the maggi point, I think we may be closer to chaos than to God.

One of the largest challenges I see around me is the menace of garbage. The most basic need for cleanliness is simply not taken care of. After years of observing, I’ve noticed an interesting pattern, almost like a cultural ritual we all silently participate in.

While driving on roads, I frequently see people in other vehicles open their window and toss out an empty plastic water bottle or a packet of chips. Out of sight and out of mind, I suppose. The intent to keep their vehicle clean is clearly there, but the intent goes out of the window along with that bit of garbage. I still fail to understand why people do this. It’s disgusting, and quite hard to explain to my family and myself. Maybe there’s a belief that the road has a magical self-cleaning mechanism we just haven’t scientifically documented yet.

Pedestrians aren’t far behind. Schoolchildren munching on chips throw their empty packets wherever gravity takes them. Juice boxes, candy wrappers – all go flying into the great outdoors. Don’t the schools still teach “cleanliness is next to godliness” or has it been replaced with “cleanliness is the someone else’s problem”?

The attitude continues well into adulthood. The juice gets replaced by liquor, chips by chakhana or snacks to accompany alcohol, and candy wrappers by tobacco pouches, but the littering remains perfectly consistent. If there’s one thing our nation is united in, it’s the art of flinging waste.

Once, I visited a home that had a huge pile of garbage hidden neatly behind it, out of sight of course. Their solution was simple and proudly shared with me: they burned it every once in a while. I suppose that’s one way to make problems disappear literally into smoke. Not something I am going to follow though.

Some years back, waste collection bins were placed at various spots around the village. Hope glimmered for a brief moment. People began using them, and I thought, “Finally, some progress.” But the bins were never emptied. The height of the dumps kept increasing until one day I noticed that they too were burning merrily away. The universal solution had been implemented again.

Burning seems to be the easiest way out. To my utter disappointment, I even see villagers collecting weeds and burning them to clear their land. I won’t even start on the perils of exposing the soil completely, but to burn organic matter that could have been composted to enrich the very same soil? That, to me, feels like a tragic waste of good resource.

I don’t see an easy way out. Maybe some large-scale change and strong policies will be required to make cleanliness a real priority. People need to understand one very basic truth – a place is not clean because it is regularly cleaned, it is clean because it is not dirtied in the first place.

Over the years, I’ve tried to lead by example. I pick up litter when I see it, carry reusable bags, and have slowly managed to convince friends and family to stop treating dustbins like decorative pieces. I wouldn’t be surprised if the homestay team has invented a nickname for me that includes the word cleanliness and possibly madness.

This change management is still a work in progress, but small victories matter. Some of the local shopkeepers now keep baskets for waste, and couple of children proudly show that they don’t litter. Some time back, a few local villagers, some schoolchildren, and I decided to clean up the area around the local temple and the pathways leading to it. It was a satisfying effort, and lasted for about twenty-four hours. By the next morning, someone had thoughtfully opened the garbage bags before they could be taken to the waste collection point and helpfully spread everything around again. Later I learnt that this noble act of sabotage was the result of a political disagreement between the people who had helped with the clean-up and others who were offended at not being included.

On a personal level, I’ve also adopted three basic habits. All biodegradable waste is composted. In my efforts to live more minimally my buying has reduced, which means less packaging and less waste. Most of the food I eat also doesn’t come in packets from supermarket shelves. That also reduces waste. And whatever plastic or non-biodegradable waste I do generate, I compress it and take it to the dump site. It’s not a perfect solution, but it’s better than burning it or letting it litter the hillsides.

Sometimes, when I see someone tossing a wrapper, I don’t shout. I simply hand it back with a smile and say, “You dropped something.” Once, I even cleaned an entire roadside patch myself in an attempt to clean the area. People started littering there on the very next morning. If litter has been found on the remotest places humans have been to, this was expected.

Right now, there are a few of us who still care enough to pick up litter whenever we see it. Maybe someday, for every hand that drops waste, another will reach out to pick it up, and eventually the hands that litter will stop altogether. That day will truly be worth celebrating.

Change begins in small pockets, and I’m trying to make sure my little corner of Uttarakhand stays clean enough for the next generation to enjoy without needing a hazmat suit. If I can convince even five people a month to think before they toss, that’s progress. And maybe one day we’ll reach the mythical land where using the dustbin isn’t just a concept but a routine, and minimalism is a way of life. Until then, I’ll keep my gloves and garbage bag ready, and my sarcasm sharp.

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