The child knows, do the adults? Assam’s civic sense on trial

Zahid Ahmed Tapadar

There is a moment that quietly restores your faith in Assam’s future. A car is moving through Guwahati’s busy roads. A plastic bottle is about to be tossed out of the window. And then a small voice from the back seat says, “Papa, don’t throw that outside. Put it in the bag. The father pauses. And keeps the bottle inside.

That child did not learn this in a government campaign. No authority ordered that response. It came from within — from a growing, genuine awareness that public spaces belong to everyone and must be treated with respect. Across Guwahati and many parts of Assam, this consciousness is quietly but unmistakably rising. You see it in citizens politely but firmly asking someone to pick up litter they just dropped. You see it in passengers who carry their own bags, use dustbins, and travel with a quiet dignity that sets an example without a word.

Assam is not a civic wasteland. A large and growing section of its people carry genuine pride in their surroundings. That must be acknowledged, celebrated, and built upon.

But honesty also demands that we look at what a section among us continues to do — and the damage that section causes to everyone else.

Every morning, roadside drains in Guwahati are choked with plastic bottles and garbage. Freshly cleaned pavements are stained with spit before the day is half done. On NH-37, on the bypass, on roads across the city, car windows roll down not for fresh air but to throw out wrappers and waste – undoing in seconds what sanitation workers laboured over since before dawn. This is not the behaviour of all. But it is the behaviour of “enough”—enough to make the city look the way it does, enough to make the work of responsible citizens feel endlessly undone.

This civic carelessness does not stop at the roads. It enters our residential spaces too. In many apartment complexes in Guwahati, some residents simply do not use garbage bags despite repeated requests from their neighbours and apartment committees. They carry their dustbins directly from their flats and empty them loosely into the common collection bin — rotting kitchen waste, food scraps, and worse. The stench draws mosquitoes and insects. What makes it even more distressing is that sanitary napkins have been found thrown directly into the open spaces of apartment campuses — a complete disregard for the dignity and health of fellow residents. And yet, in the very same building, other residents carefully pack their waste in sealed garbage bags and place them properly for GMC collection. Two sets of people. One building. Two entirely different standards of civic conscience.

Board a city bus in Guwahati. Most passengers are quiet, considerate, and well-behaved. But watch what happens when an elderly person or a Divyangajan slowly boards. The seats clearly reserved for them are often occupied — and a section of young, able-bodied passengers will look away, scroll their phones, and pretend not to notice. Some vacate when requested. Others refuse. It is not a majority — but it happens with enough regularity to be a pattern, and that pattern causes real suffering to real people every single day.

The same is true inside Assam’s premium trains — the Vande Bharat and Jana Shatabdi. Most passengers travel with courtesy in executive class. But there are those who play Facebook videos, songs, and mobile games on full loudspeaker volume, indifferent to the discomfort around them. On one such journey, a fellow passenger was politely requested to lower the volume or use headphones. The response from the gentleman—aged around 55— was remarkable in its candour. “I don’t have headphones,” he said, “and I am bored, so I am playing it loudly.” That was his justification. His boredom. In a coach full of people seeking a peaceful journey, his personal boredom was reason enough to disturb everyone. This was not a young, impulsive traveller. The offender was a middle-aged, seemingly educated man travelling in the executive class—and he saw nothing wrong with what he was doing.

This is the paradox that makes the problem so deeply frustrating. The child in the back seat understands civic responsibility better than the adult at the wheel. Education, income, and age have simply not guaranteed civic sense in those who lack it — and no law, campaign, or slogan can manufacture what must ultimately come from within a person’s own conscience.

But while we wait for that conscience to awaken, consequences must be made real. Anti-littering fines must be enforced visibly and without exception. Vehicles caught throwing waste must be challaned. TTEs on trains must be empowered to enforce noise etiquette firmly – the way airlines do, without apology. Housing societies must have enforceable waste management rules with real accountability. And the responsible majority among us must find the quiet courage to speak up when we witness civic violations — not aggressively, but clearly. Because silence in the face of wrong is itself a kind of permission.

Assam is a state of breathtaking natural beauty, deep cultural pride, and enormous potential. However, a city, a state, and a society are ultimately judged not only by their best citizens but also by how firmly they hold others accountable.

The child in the back seat already knows what is right. The question is whether the adult at the wheel is ready to listen.