As hope dries up...

WITH THE intensity of the "khatri" laying the groundwork in May and June, and with no signs of summer showers, Chennai soon turns into an inferno in the months that follow.

With lakes, wells and sumps drying in the macro and micro perspective respectively, I was gearing for the so called "bought" water. The talk of the Government organising lorries and rail tankers with water from Erode, Mettur and Neyveli conjures up in my mind mass movements of these in a convoy, like deployment of troops in warfare.

My fantasy saw Chennai soon in a deluge or more realistically in a fairly easy situation, when people will have a choice of Erode/Mettur/Neyveli water with its extension also to Krishna!

I am a novice in the game of "bought" water, having been born and nurtured in the lap of luxury... waterwise, thanks to the Cauvery that takes care of Thanjavur and Lalgudi where I born and brought up, respectively. Even in Madras, my grandfather had left a comfortable legacy of a fairly large well, with a home attached. It housed a joint family of nearly 40 members who took turns to draw water from the well.

Those days, the occasional sightings of a water tanker when we came to Madras during our summer holidays was amusing and it never occurred that some day in the distant future, I too would have to depend on these tankers and look for water suppliers in the Yellow Pages.

I had short listed some names. Everytime I called one of the suppliers, the question was the same - What do you want? A redundant question as I was not going to ask for bullion from a water supplier! Anyway, I would answer "Water" and instantly the reply would be "Not available." It then dawned on me that water was as valuable as bullion. Anyway, I finally found someone who was willing to supply, but only after two or three days.

The day of deliverance arrived. The tanker taxied to park by the side of the compound wall and I shot a smile at the driver.

There was no reciprocal nod even. I have never experienced, even from the worst of adversaries, this kind of frozen and lifeless look of indifference, pregnant with contempt that the driver gave me.

As he got down from his seat, he flicked another glance at the cleaner, whose lot it was to do the "menial" work of rolling the hose from the tanker's spout to the sump opening.

The driver meanwhile seated himself in the shade of a temple tree inside the compound, an ambience which I thought might elicit some verbal response from him. I asked, "Is the water from a well or a bore?" Without even caring to take his eyes off the newspaper he was reading, he muttered something, which I thought mentioned the source as a well. His hauteur would have been more appropriate for a senior commander of a Boeing! Like any sane man, I left him alone.

Meanwhile, the cleaner had fixed the hose and was overseeing the operation of water cascading into the empty sump. I was happily looking at the water gushing down the depths of the sump, a pleasant sight indeed.

But when I spotted some twigs and leaves, I gave a look (I thought I had reasonably flinched my face!). Immediately, the cleaner replied that these must have been 'picked' up from the low branches as the lid had been kept open.

But the colours of the flotsam suggested that it was more primordial than that picked up enroute. Before I could follow up my grimace verbally that it was not convincing, he gave a discourse on the state of affairs, water wise, in the city and how time is not far off when such tankers will have to smuggle water with 'edible oil' or 'petroleum' written on the tanker!

I was sure the water will match in quality, its looks and drank a handful, which confirmed my suspicion. If anything, it tasted like magsulph. Again I flinched. The cleaner said they supplied the same water to cola bottling companies.

Once the operation was nearing completion, I went up to fetch the money. From the bay window I could see the cleaner winding up the operation.

The driver was signalling to him for some water to drink. The cleaner took an empty Coke bottle to the hose. That was when for the first time, I heard the driver indulging in more than a monosyllabic dialogue. "Not that dirty water, you fool. Get me some "drinkable" water from the hand pump."

That was some revelation. Quietly, I came down and handed over the money. The tanker took off leaving a trail of an unanswered query... How on earth can cola companies use this water?

T. L. RAGHAVAN

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