The parched reminiscence

Bengaluru’s transformation reminds me of our struggle for water in the village

I was born in a village in Madras State (now Tamil Nadu). There was a small Pillayaar kovil at one end of our street. The River Vaippar, typically dry, ran parallel to our house at a short distance. We had a male cook, whom my grandmother addressed simply as Oi Mama. He had to walk to the river, dig the sand to find water, and fill his pot. This was the only potable water source in the village. Although we had a well at home, the water was salty and could be used only for “outside” purposes. 

My parents and I lived in the nearby town, and our modest house was one of five in a 'compound'. There was a well, and water could be pumped to an overhead tank. There was also one common tap for all tenants. The tap was at such a height that my father and I, perched on his shoulder, could sit under it for what a friend called “a filter bath." However, the scenario soon changed due to hot summers. Within a decade, the well dried up considerably, and my mother had to wait a long time for the well spring to produce enough water to fill a single pot. Her feet were pitted like a porous sponge due to the gruelling experience of hopping along the cemented path in the burning heat. 

Then came my Bangalore. During my visits to the city, I enjoyed the salubrious climate, streets filled with floral aroma, plenty of Carnatic music, and friendly, loving people. If I were to settle down somewhere, it should be in Bangalore. I prayed. On a later visit, I also met someone who concretized my plan. 

I have indeed, as you have guessed, settled down in this lovely city of Bengaluru for several decades now. The 'someone' I met has been my wife for over 40 years. Water was supplied by the corporation, directly from the Cauvery River. As the years passed, the influx of people to Garden City from every corner of the globe was unstoppable. Multi-story apartments pierce the sky. Borewells suck out until the last drop of ground water. It is jested that one bore well even went so far down as to injure the head of the multi-headed Nagaraja, the Lord of Nagaloka, who is supposed to be carrying the earth on his head! 

It's a pipe dream to expect the corporation to meet the requirements of this megacity. Even tanker water has become scarce and expensive. Once again, water has become a scarce commodity in my life. Have we come a full circle? Have we lost all that we have worked for over so many decades—a life of basic comfort, easy availability of essential commodities, and a simple home? My reverie was broken by the “Saar, tanker bandidhe" (sir, the tanker has come). I rushed out to receive the elixir of life.