Mr Jhunnu believes in Development. He reads it on hoardings, in newspapers, in WhatsApp messages written by invisible yet trustworthy IT cells. Whenever the GDP inches upwards, his heart expands like the income inequality curve. He gazes at billionaires the way fakirs once gazed at the Gods, for productivity is the only cure for the nation’s ailments. And when he hears economists debate otherwise, he changes the news channel—negativity lowers productivity.
Mr Jhunnu’s life is proof that Development works. His living room glows like an electronics store—an 85-inch television with surround sound for soothing marketing jingles, air conditioners large enough to cool moral uprisings, and cars multiplying faster than family members. Groceries arrive before you can spell ‘exploitation’. Mr Jhunnu often says, “What a time to be alive.”
Mr Jhunnu builds things. Tall things. Expensive things. The city skyline, he says, should reflect the human spirit (by which he means his bank balance). The city administration wholeheartedly agrees and supports Mr Jhunnu with a steady flow of permits (he donates to all political parties because patriotism, after all, is bipartisan).