Concrete doesn't stop bullets. It doesn’t bridge blood feuds, either. But if you ask Nitin Gadkari, the Union Minister for Road Transport and Highways, there isn't a single geopolitical crisis that can’t be smoothed over with a fresh layer of bitumen and a few thousand crores in federal funding.

Last week, Gadkari sat down with Manipur’s Minister for Rural Development and Panchayati Raj, Yumnam Khemchand Singh. The headline out of the meeting was exactly what you’d expect from the "Highway Man" of India: a promise of total support for the state’s crumbling national and state highways. It’s the kind of bureaucratic assurance that sounds great in a press release but feels incredibly hollow when you look at a map of Northeast India.

Manipur is currently a logistical nightmare wrapped in a humanitarian catastrophe. For the better part of a year, the state has been carved up by ethnic blockades, insurgent checkpoints, and a "double-engine" government that seems to have stalled in the mud. Gadkari is promising to pave the way out. Literally. He’s talking about fast-tracking projects, expanding the NHIDCL (National Highways and Infrastructure Development Corporation Limited) footprint, and ensuring that the lifelines of the state—NH-2 and NH-37—stay functional.

It’s an expensive gambit. We’re talking about projects worth over ₹1,000 crore being dangled like a carrot in a region where the stick is the only thing anyone’s felt lately.

The friction here isn't just the terrain, though the Himalayas are notoriously bad at holding onto roads. The real friction is the cost of doing business in a conflict zone. When you build a highway in Manipur, you aren't just paying for gravel and labor. You’re paying a "security tax" that never shows up on an official invoice. You’re dealing with contractors who have to negotiate with local militias just to move a bulldozer from point A to point B. Every kilometer of asphalt is a target for a blockade.

Gadkari’s optics are consistent. He treats the Ministry of Road Transport like a giant vending machine for connectivity. You put in a request, he pushes a button, and out pops a four-lane highway. But a highway is only a "lifeline" if people can actually drive on it without getting pulled out of their cars. Currently, NH-2, the artery connecting Imphal to Dimapur, is a hostage to geography and tribal politics. Promising "full support" for this road is like promising to fix the plumbing in a house while the roof is on fire.

There’s a specific kind of tech-bro optimism in Gadkari’s approach. It’s the belief that infrastructure is a neutral good—that if you just build the pipes, the society will naturally flow toward prosperity. It ignores the fact that in Manipur, roads are weapons. They are used to cut off food supplies to the valley or to prevent security forces from reaching the hills. When the center promises to build more of them, they aren't just building trade routes; they’re building high-speed corridors for a military presence that much of the population views with deep suspicion.

Khemchand Singh, for his part, walked away with exactly what he needed: a commitment of central cash. In the logic of state politics, a meeting with Gadkari is a win because it proves the taps haven't been turned off. It suggests that despite the internet shutdowns, the drone attacks, and the displacement of thousands, the business of "Development" continues. It’s a performance. It’s a way for the state government to pretend it still has its hands on the wheel when, in reality, the wheels fell off months ago.

The trade-off is obvious. The center gets to claim it’s "integrating" the Northeast through massive capital expenditure. The state gets a temporary influx of funds. But the actual people of Manipur? They’re still stuck behind barricades. They’re still paying three times the price for a cylinder of cooking gas because the existing highways are blocked by protestors who couldn't care less about Gadkari’s vision for 2030.

We’ve seen this script before. The government throws concrete at a political problem and hopes the weight of the slabs will keep the dissent down. It’s a cynical calculation. If you build enough roads, maybe people will be too busy driving to fight. Or maybe you're just making it easier for the next convoy to get ambushed.

So, Gadkari will sign the checks. Singh will take the photos. The NHIDCL will draft the tenders. And the asphalt will eventually be laid down, snaking through hills that have seen more blood than traffic in the last eighteen months.

If a highway is built in a war zone and no one is safe enough to use it, does it actually exist, or is it just another line item in a budget designed to hide a failure?