Tags:
Journalism of Courage
It8217;s a long wait for me every evening. I wait 8212; all dressed up for office 8212; to hear the hissing and spluttering that announces the arrival of my daily ration of water. Often it fails to turn up on time and I have to leave, my mind full of the fear that the tank will run dry in the midst of my morning ablutions.
But when water comes, it comes with a bang. Often with so much silt that I wonder if it has been piped in straight from a swamp nearby.
But that was seven years ago. This is my first summer in Delhi, and I am already dreaming of the wells back home in coastal Kerala, which used to nearly spill over after the bounty of every monsoon. We took that water so much for granted, cursing it for smelling of moss. Now, it seems, the Almighty is taking his revenge on me. Otherwise why would he subject me to the torture of having to bathe in water that reminds me of a particular sewer in downtown Kochi? I distinctively remember my chemistry teacher observing that the smell was that of a sulphuric compound.
I8217;ve been vaccinated against Hepatitis, but I8217;m still afraid of all the underworld connections my glass of water here has made before emerging from my tap. Give me a glass of pesticide anyday!
