Aizawl: No beggars, no spit, no chaos - Inside India's most "un-Indian" city

New Indian Express

9 hours ago

There's a wry joke in Mizoram about the rest of India: Everyone there is in such a terrible hurry, but somehow always manage to arrive late. When I heard it for the first time, I was on the edge of a mountain—to my right was one of Aizawl's busiest roads with bumper-to-bumper traffic, yet it was quiet enough to hear the flapping of a bird diving into the valley on my right, buildings dotting the slopes on the other side of the mountain.
During my week in Aizawl, I never heard an unnecessary honk (the necessary honk will surprise you for its purpose). The understanding traffic, the quietness of busy roads gave me a culture shock.
The first time I had encountered something similar was in 2002 in Germany, where in two weeks, the only horn I heard was fired at me when I was crossing the road on a red pedestrian light. To experience that same culture shock right here in India, amidst a people so quiet, so polite they can give the Japanese a run for their decency, that's a shock of a different kind.
To truly understand Aizawl, forget everything you think you know about Indian cities. Tuck away the cacophony, the frantic urgency, the visible tension that often hangs thick in the air. And journey instead to the capital of Mizoram, the capital city of the Mizo people in the far eastern folds of the Himalayas, a city cradled by hilltops that are kissed by drowsy clouds that sensuously touch it as they pass by.
It is a city that pulses with a different rhythm through its streets, feeling less like a chapter from the familiar Indian story and more like a vibrant, unexpected postcard slipped in from somewhere else entirely; somewhere remarkably like Japan, perhaps, nestled improbably within the Indian subcontinent.
The Mizo people, guardians of this emerald paradise, seem to operate under a profoundly simple, yet radically different, philosophy: why make mess messier? Why turn misfortune into fury? It's a mindset that instantly strikes visitors, like it did me, accustomed as we are to the high-decibel stress of mainland Indian metros.
Europe taught me the rarity of the unnecessary honk. Returning to India, I resigned myself to its constant presence. Until Aizawl.
My friend Shashwati, my host in Aizawl, shared an incident she witnessed from her balcony, demonstrating the local culture. Two scooters collided head-on. Riders tumbled, and scrapes were sustained on their bodies.
Now, picture this happening in mainland India: a volcanic eruption of curses involving mothers, sisters, ancestors would have followed; a flailing, shouting spectacle threatening to escalate into blows on both sides as a crowd gathered to watch. Shashwati, a Delhiite, braced for this familiar drama. Instead, she watched in stunned silence as both men picked themselves up, dusted off, straightened their bikes, exchanged a quiet nod, and rode away. Shit happens, seemed to be their unsaid principle, but why compound it by shittier behaviour?
Her shock echoed my recollection of Western observers after the Fukushima earthquake. Despite the unimaginable loss and scarcity, the world watched in awe as the Japanese in Fukushima displayed no panic, no looting, only quiet dignity, and mutual aid that shocked experienced Western aid workers.
Aizawl, it struck me, embodies that same spirit in its daily rhythms. Traffic jams occur, naturally, on narrow mountain roads. But the soundtrack to the jam is not provided by impatient honks and abuses, but by a near-silent, zen-like patience.
Cars wait for their turn. At unmarked intersections, drivers consistently yield, stopping well back to allow cross-traffic to flow smoothly. Multiple times, I saw people backing away when there was no need to. In Mumbai or Delhi, the instinct is often to jam oneself forward, blocking everything, and then to hold one's ground, creating gridlock out of mere congestion. Here, the instinct is to prevent the mess.
Joel, a driver who had often driven vehicles as far as UP, confirmed this ethos. "Elsewhere," he mused, "police are often seen controlling, sometimes beating people and traffic. Here, they seem genuinely focused on helping people."
While I've seen delivery riders on electric bikes in Mumbai, weave dangerously through traffic in a desperate ten-minute dash, people in Aizawl are more likely to be engaged in ten-minute, utterly unhurried conversations, punctuated by gentle, respectful nods.
I found myself speculating: perhaps the only significant difference between Japan and Mizoram is the depth of the bows and language? The composure, the understated manners, the inherent orderliness —it felt strikingly similar.
And the honk. Yes, it's not like Mizos on Aizawl's streets don't honk. They do: 'honk honk' two quick, gentle dabs on the button. However, this occurs when the opposing vehicle is passing parallel to theirs. This gentle double honk is to say Thank You.
Then there's the cleanliness. Oh, the cleanliness! Countless Indian cities trumpet claims of being the cleanest, often amidst visible evidence to the contrary. Yet, after two decades traversing this vast nation, I can confidently say Aizawl stands apart.
Rubbish simply doesn't exist on the streets in any noticeable quantity. This puzzled me because people here chew tuibur (a local tobacco water). And like the rest of the Northeast, chewing a paan, betelnut, lime, and tobacco mixture is common. Where, then, are the tell-tale red stains that deface walls and pavements across the country? In a week of wandering, I saw no one spit publicly. The few instances I noticed seemed to be from those outside the Northeast.
It rains a lot, yet there are no plastic bottles choking drains or empty packets drifting like urban tumbleweeds. Aizawl could be the poster city for Swachh Bharat, with zero banners for the 'Abhiyan' that failed to teach India cleanliness. Instead, it stems from a collective discipline, a shared respect for their shared space that seems ingrained.