The Tap Has Not Come

                 Halfway through the humming of the washing-machine that was churning and shredding the linen, Kind Neighbour informed me “udok naa.” To me that was worse news than a CM resigning in Delhi. We had a good monsoon, I started to say. Kind Neighbour read my mind: “…it’s not really a shortage, it’s a broken pipe,” she said soothingly. Then advised: “Don’t put on the pump, the sump might be empty and something might happen to it.”

          “Something might happen” is usually said when death is possible. Don’t drink and swim in the monsoons, something might happen. Don’t attempt to taste strange liquids, like phenol, however nice they smell, something might happen. Don’t play with fire… don’t pump the sump when it’s dry…

          The pipe on Chogm road had broken at an inconvenient time. We had just returned from a long road trip. Thirsty plants had been given respite, stuff in the fridge had been sorted, dals/rice washed and soaked for making polley. The Man had splashed a capful of shampoo over the car, lathered it up to remove grit and grime, then hosed it down and rubbed it off to give the glass and metal a sparkle. Unpacking over, we had checked our mails and smses, dusted curios, unpacked sweaty clothes, discovered (killed and thrown away) an audacious not-so-little ‘roach, opened the windows to let the fresh air counter the mustiness … the perfect closure to a fun weekend, or so we thought until an empty overhead taanki stood (literally) aamchyaa maatyaar.

          Apparently, Chogm road was (is) being widened to allow an extra lane of cars to and from Porvorim-Calangute. The fact that they will all clog up at Saligao, where there’s just enough space at certain places for water-tankers to kiss whilst crossing, is something the planners will deal with later. Right now, since 31 March is within tickling distance, everyone’s in the have-money-will-spend mood.

          None will ever know who broke the pipe. The Minister will ask the departmental officers who will check with the supervisors who will question the contractor whose boss-on-site will find out from the labourers who will look accusingly at the stray dogs who aren’t barking anyone anything.

          After several trips and phone-calls to the PWD office, we were told the pipe repair zaalaan. Our joy lived as long as it takes from Mapusa to Ponda by bus. We were told on our next two visits to the PWD office that the same pipe was now broken in two new places. Same plot, different film.

          I’m not deterred by living within a taambyo of udok per day. I’d never known the words null aylo naa in the Bombay I grew up in. Memories of Goa, at Palolem, on vacation with the grandparents, are studded with images of a brimming sweet-water well. Marriage took me to UP where I discovered that tapping a switch or swivelling a tap didn’t mean one could get electricity or water. Winters in Srinagar taught me that frozen water could burst pipes. In Tambaram, in the days (1982) when Tamil Nadu brought in trains of water into Chennai, we threw a pebble into our well every morning. If we heard a splash, we worked the pump. If it didn’t, we dipped into our ‘store’, a 500 litre drum. That drum gave us comfort in semi-arid Hyderabad, and later in the Thar, where the weekly supply was regular, but scarce. In all these places, Nature was cruel. Water had to be conserved. Whilst washing clothes, it was white clothes first; into the same liquid went the coloured lot and they were kept aside to make way for the dirty rags. Rinsing followed the same schedule. No water went down the drain without being used multiple times. Even bath-water was channelized into plants. We put stones into flush tanks so that with less volume of water, the level still reached the lever.

          But Nature is kind here. Would that make a difference? Goa might suffer from the Chirapunji syndrome. The place famous for the world’s heaviest rainfall ironically buys its water from the plains. No one can build a dam/ lake there to trap so many hundred inches of rainfall, because then the tanker mafia won’t make money.

          By the time this goes into print, the pipe may get repaired. We may use our pumps, sumps and forget about the discomfort caused by null aiylo naa. Practical folks used this opportunity to get their tanks cleaned. No one cribbed because the tankers ‘came free’. Nothing has gone of anyone’s father. Ogee maatyaa traas kityak karoon ghevap?