In Tambaram,
1982, I depended on a water-train that came in from Karnataka. In Jodhpur,
every trickle, each drop was rescued in a plastic mug, carefully monitored so
that it didn’t ever overflow. The moment it was three-fourths full, its
contents were poured into a big bucket. But the leaky tap, for some reason,
remained unrepaired whilst tenants came and went. The landlord thought it wiser
that we learned our lessons the hard way.
In Hyderabad, municipal water ‘came’
once a week. We knew the day, but were never sure of the time it would ‘come’. (In
times of uncertainty and power-cuts, books are handy for time-pass. As are
chatty neighbours.) A friend gifted me a metal drum, painted white, with a lid.
I bought a pipe that linked it to the tap. Didn’t help because the pressure wouldn’t
allow it to rise to the height of the drum opening. I had to fill buckets and
lift and empty them into the drum. Those with underground tanks found that with
erratic electricity supply and scanty input, they had to invest in drums, too.
The mug-dip model worked best. There was no need for gym-memberships, building
muscles was part of my daily routine.
Sturdy ‘jerry-cans’
were uncommon and precious. In those days, oil was marketed in square tins/
metal dabbas which were useful for storing daals or growing plants in until
they (plants not dabbas) rusted.
Whether in Srinagar, where the
temperatures caused pipes to burst when the water inside them froze, or
Ghaziabad where mismanagement caused water shortages even when the Yamuna was
in flood, I learnt to conserve water…
…By using the bucket-and-mug more
than running the tap. By rinsing hands/feet over plants. By putting stones in
the old, big flush tanks to use less water. By using the flush with care after
a couple of uses of the commode. By throwing ‘pocha’ water on the plants. By
not doing daily ‘pocha’. By carefully folding and keeping away clothes worn for
only a few hours. By not washing the car daily. When water became really
scarce, I did no pocha, and the car (actually, motorcycle for a longer period)
wasn’t washed. Living in water-starved areas changes one’s levels of
sophistication and ideas of cleanliness. Showers in bathrooms were cruel
reminders of disparity. Bathtubs were unknown except in palaces/five-star hotel
suites/foreign films.
The water used
for rinsing clean vessels/vegetables/rice/pulses was poured into the plants,
or, at times when I lived in a flat, the toilet.
All creatures
– stray dogs, destitute beggars, unwanted cattle and monitor lizards that came
to squat in the shade of the gate-pillar to seek respite from the heat—were offered
water. At least a palm-full.
In beautiful,
tourist-attracting Ooty, I saw women pushing carts of brightly coloured plastic
vessels to and from public hand-pumps. One doesn’t have to go far to see that
sight these days, a short drive from Goa to Kolhapur helps. If you want to see
how equal the genders are, watch what happens when a water-supplying tanker
parks near a water-deprived neighbourhood. Men and women fight orally and
physically. Sometimes the latter win, alone or in teams. Thirst knows no
political/social correctness. The vicious and the bullying are successful.
Even in times
of plenty, when the monsoons have been kind, it doesn’t strike most people that
the water provided by the PWD is processed and therefore expensive and wasteful
to be used for non-essential/ornamental flora.
But, as a water-loving, garbage-rich,
government-dependent patriot, I think: why do something myself if someone can
do it for me? Why should I harvest rainwater? Why should I save water? Let the
government do it, no?
Better still, I think: let the
government have sponsored/subsidized poojas/yajnas in temples, masses in
churches, prayers (with loudspeakers, festoons and hawkers selling plastic
toys) in playgrounds, to prompt God to do His holy duty. Like other dutiful
homebound wives, and some ailing and elderly, I contribute to national
prosperity by chanting special, ancient, enchanted shlokas a couple of times a
day to get those clouds moving and dripping. I wear lucky rings, too, studded
with coloured stones, to deal with badly behaving planets.
I think India should have a law
making it compulsory for citizens to do that.
Shri Husband’s aside: “You’re
thinking? Must be the temperature/dehydration.”
When the heat makes me uncomfortable
and the news about drought-stricken districts twinges me, I pay day charges to or
check into a hotel and have a swim. Does wonders to the sweat glands, muscles
and conscience (chilled beverages add to the magic). That swimming-pool water
comes from tankers, you see, not connected with the thirsting masses elsewhere.
Saves me from accumulating paap that might stain my karma.
Law-makers who can and did (over a
weekend approximately a month ago) ban 344 fixed drug combinations which give
relief and save lives, find it hard to tackle water shortages. Manufacturers of
light plastic bottles and those marketing ‘drinking’ water have bank accounts
that soak in profits.
I saw something once, four years ago,
in Meghalaya. Cheerapunji (locally known as Sohra), a place that gets nearly as
much rain as the Amazon forest, suffered from ‘no water’. All the rain that
formed majestic cataracts and bubbly streams flowed down the gentle eastern
Himalayan slopes bordering Bangladesh, to the plains. From there, it was pumped
into tankers that smoked and growled their way up the ghats back to Cheerapunji
to be sold to the locals. Commerce is fascinating.
Naturally, water shortages are a
boon, if you know what I mean. Through the dry summer afternoons and in between
filling up vessels with the rationed trickle that’s coming through the PWD
line, I’m planning to read P Sainath’s ‘Everybody Loves a Good Drought’.
Feedback: sheelajaywant@yahoo.co.in
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