In most parts of the world, roads are so basic that people don’t even think twice about them. They are the arteries of an economy, the signboards of progress, the proof that a government cares about its people. But in Nagaland, we don’t enjoy such luxury. Here, roads are not a basic necessity, they are a seasonal miracle.
Take the famous Dimapur–Kohima four-lane highway. It was supposed to be the pride of Nagaland, the gateway to faster growth. Instead, it has become a decade-long construction site. Ten years have gone by, and the road still looks like a laboratory experiment where engineers test how long human beings can survive without a proper highway. Meanwhile, in other states, roads that were started at the same time
and are twice as long are already carrying traffic smoothly. Only in Nagaland do four lanes take longer than a four-generation family story.
And then there is Kohima—the so-called “Smart City.” The roads here are only smart once a year, during the Hornbill Festival, when cosmetic repairs are hurriedly done for the VIPs and tourists. For the remaining 11 months, the capital looks less like a smart city and more like a crash course in off-road driving. If this is the condition of the state capital, do we even dare to imagine the plight of roads in far-flung districts? Perhaps it is better not to.
The monsoon season brings its own dark comedy. Roads disappear under rivers of mud, potholes turn into ponds, and drivers need the skills of a rally racer just to reach home. Forget ambulances and school buses sometimes even cows and goats struggle to walk straight on our roads.
But let’s be clear this is not just about potholes. Bad roads strangle development. Farmers can’t get their produce to markets on time, businesses bleed money and investments dry up. A road that takes ten years to build also takes away ten years of opportunities. Nagaland’s road problem is also a mirror reflecting governance and priorities. Projects linger indefinitely, bureaucratic inefficiencies flourish and political announcements often substitute actual work. The average citizen waits, often helpless, while progress crawls at snail pace or worse, disappears altogether under layers of mud and dust.
So, after so many years, after countless inaugurations and after so many promises of progress, one must ask seriously, satirically and despairingly, is there really any road in Nagaland? Or is the state destined to remain a place where connectivity exists only in speeches, reports and official documents, while on the ground, people bump along broken paths, dodging craters and monsoon puddles?
Until there is recognition that roads are not privileges but rights, that development cannot exist without connectivity, Nagaland will continue to struggle. Citizens deserve more than ten-year-long construction projects and seasonal “smart” streets. They deserve roads that reflect their aspirations, not just the delay and inefficiency of governance.
For now, the question remains—provocative, painful and slightly humorous, Is there any road in Nagaland? And until the day a proper highway stretches from Dimapur to Kohima and beyond to every district, this question will not only remain relevant—it will resonate as the loudest critique of Nagaland’s stalled development. Until the day comes when our leaders realize that a road is not a favor but a right, we will keep bouncing in our vehicles, dodging craters, and asking the same satirical but very real question: Is there any road in Nagaland?
~ Moajungshi Menon
