The Leak in the Pipeline

A short story I submitted to the FMS college magazine -

Maya held a plastic pot on her head as she precariously walked on the pipe. The pipe spanned across a city drain, about 20 meters wide. The city’s sewage flowed underneath, eclipsed by thick clumps of water hyacinths. Herons waded in the noxious muck, hunting for the creatures that thrive on it. As she alighted from the pipe, there were no onlookers to cheer, whistle and reward her show of daredevilry. Instead, she had harvested a quantum of fresh water, which was sufficient to sustain her family for the next few hours. 

The circular pipeline, with a diameter of 4 feet, carried water from a faraway river to benefit the residents of the city. Ironically, while villagers bordering the river had to walk a few kilometres to harness its life giving liquid, the residents of the city, a hundred kilometres away, could access it with a simple twist of their expensive Jaquar taps. The portion of the pipe that spanned across the gutter had a leaky valve in the middle. The PWD engineers turned a blind eye to the leak; the relative inaccessibility of the spot gave them a convenient excuse. They had mercifully done so for two years now, and enabled Maya, Balwant and their toddler to live off it.

The first few journeys across the pipeline were harrowing. Maya had to leave behind her new-born baby in her tent, at the mercy of the other inhabitants of the pavement: stray dogs, vagabonds and the occasional traffic policeman. She had to carefully balance the pot on her head with one hand while holding her ghagra up shin-high to avoid tripping over it while crossing. The passage of two years had consequently replaced fear with steely courage. Desperation begets bravery.   

Maya was 18 years of age and nursing a new-born baby when she was forced out of her village in Rajasthan, to eke out a living. A few neighbouring families had narrated promising stories of prosperity in the cities of south India. Balwant, accompanied by Maya, had ambled to the railway station, caught the first train that was rumoured to head south, and got off after a couple of days at a railway station that seemed big enough to serve a city. Only by chance did it happen to be Bangalore; landing in Chennai, Hyderabad or Vishakhapatnam would have made no real difference. At least Bangalore’s weather is a shade kinder to the plight of a people who live in tattered tents that line its footpaths.

They managed to get on by selling knick-knacks on the pavement. A formidable variety of helmets, kick scooters, teddy bears and replicas of Venus De Milo made of plaster of Paris greeted passers-by. Their business attracted the attention of the local traffic policeman, who was their biggest source of expenditure. They also had to give him the occasional toy to keep him mollified. The law can be sadistically cruel to people who have been the victims of centuries of lawlessness.

One fine morning, Sharat Chandra happened to chance upon the leaky pipeline on his morning walk. He noticed the steady trickle of pure water drip down to be mixed with the sewage below. Chandra was a well-intentioned elderly gentleman who had recently retired from his occupation. He was now determined to put his newfound time and the little vitality that age had spared him for the cause of the common good. Later that day, he called at the local corporation office and requested to meet the engineer-in-charge. The engineer wasn’t at the office as he had gone to attend to some urgent repairs. The elderly man was met with some or the other excuse on repeated visits to the office, but he was determined. Finally, after hours of waiting, he stood before the engineer. Contrary to what he had expected, the engineer seemed to be a very cheerful and polite man. He gave Chandra a patient listening and was eager to get the leak fixed. He promised to visit the pipeline the following morning at ten ‘o’ clock to inspect the leak and tackle the problem. He explained that he was newly posted in the area and thanked Chandra for bringing the leak to the notice of his office.

The designated hour was at hand. Chandra leaned on his walking stick while staring into the seemingly endless sewage drain. Sure enough, at 10 AM, the engineer, surrounded by a couple of lackeys, strode out of his Ambassador car and shook hands with him. He quickly inspected the trickling pipe from a distance, gave instructions to the two men accompanying him and assured Chandra that the leak would be fixed in a couple of days. Chandra looked at the engineer as the latter strode towards his car with brisk steps and was driven away. The engineer seemed to be an assertive man, who took his job seriously. A quiet sense of satisfaction seemed to fill Chandra.

As he prepared to leave the scene, Chandra glanced at the pipeline and was shocked to find a woman balanced carefully upon it. With measured and confident steps she, proceeded to reach the spot of the leak and hang a pot at the location of the leak. Maya made her way back across the pipeline and saw the elderly man looking at her. Their eyes met for a couple of seconds after which Maya made her way back to her humble tent. Chandra stood at the scene, frozen, as vehicles whizzed by.

Driftwood

I wrote this in a pensive mood, one evening a few months back...


He walked alone through the road along the wooded reaches at the crack of dawn. Alone was good for there were no limits that his mind knew nor his walk would know, that presence of another would most certainly serve to normalize, constrain and make mundane. The hour was that of transition; from a world of uncertain chirping of the delightful six-legged creatures that have fascinated him ever since he laid his sense upon them to the more certain calls of the early birds. Thus unbound by the limits of purpose and another mind or body’s demands, he wandered on, both physically and mentally, wherever he was sent, not much unlike a dry leaf on the surface of a gentle spring.

This was that state where rationality broke down and his mind refused to comply by the guidelines of its being every other time otherwise. This was a time when nothing could have chosen what he cared for. Most things that would otherwise seem so significant to him, was detached and so far away that he transformed into an altogether different creature. Anything mattered but nought to him, neither the lofty dreams that he had, nor the little liberties that define us. Now was a time when his mind was so far removed that no force, human or otherwise, could bend its state of emotional isolation. He wasn't happy for how kind life had been, neither was he sad for its harsher realities. The beauty of his surroundings mattered to him only as much as it would have to the wayside rocks that he passed along.

Why is it that we pursue something just for the thrill of the ride? Unto what end is achievement, pain, happiness, misery, pride, anger, lust, envy or sorrow? How much does it matter whether our demeanour would placate the expectations of them who surround us? How much does it matter whether it placates our own, if by doing so, we are merely making way for the arousal of certain ephemeral, visceral emotions that are brought about by the action of naturally emitted chemicals? How much lesser still it matters, if these chemicals are pushed through by consuming more chemicals? Our emotions are but reactions between baking soda and acetic acid of differing strengths, spurting and gurgling whenever they confront each other and merely as significant. Now isn’t that a neat experiment? Make a rudimentary mountain of clumped lumps of mud and poke a hole on the top so as to fill it with baking soda and add to it the vinegar in your hand. A reddish hue might just about qualify to remind you of a volcano. Cheer its occurrence heartily while repeating it till the ingredients are spent, or you are.

Then what be the purpose of such existence? If there be no higher being, it has no meaning. If there is something of that sort, we are merely its experiments, serving to glorify our deeds and emotions, clawing the dirt around us to ground us more firmly, consuming, producing, purifying and polluting things that we deem so worthy, pumping ourselves with pleasure, both physically and mentally only to be irrevocably transformed into insignificant dust, only to source his amusement. Of course, the significance of such amusement can be questioned as well leading us to reach an irreversible loop. What are we but mere parasites of that which surround us, which in turn are the same. However, that doesn't change the nature of our discussion, nor does it make us more relevant.

He then joined the stream that ran beside his path, unshaken, unstirred yet much happier than the happiest man in spite of the absence of joy, because he knew not any sorrow. He was the master of his emotions. He did not submit to the will of another being in any way whatsoever. He did not see the need to care or concern himself with any other. He refused to depend upon anything for survival. His life refused to be imprisoned in the prison that it had just discovered around itself.

He floated on, dead, not much unlike a dry leaf on the surface of a gentle spring.

At what price?

My submission to virtuvian this year went thus...

We humans posses an ingrained attachment to things natural. This explains the existence of so many forces that persuade us to work for its well being. Of course, the degree to which this attachment exists in every human is quite different as people are themselves. But I am sure any human being can relate to the subtle leap of joy that bursts across one when something untamed and natural is seen, say a hare prancing around the campus or the sight of a wild flower around. This is something that sets the college apart from the mundane surroundings of the city. Nothing however magnificent or industrious, when man-made, can bring in us the same feeling a little mammal can by the virtue of its mere existence. The vicinity of a beautiful beach, relatively unspoilt by the human forces at hand, compliments the campus’ natural charm. A lesser known spot that will fit into the category mentioned above is the seasonal lake which is a result of an underground dam at the other end of the campus. Hidden away by the acres of wooded reaches that surround it, locations like these give the campus an ambience of a rugged rainforest in brief stretches, more so when it pours like the herald of the great flood.

Here is where I let you into my tribute to the hockey field. The field happens to be one of many which have been swallowed by the Mega hostel block in its wake. In the summer months, it was a sight of much playful commotion. During the rainy season, and particularly the rainy nights was when the field did rise to moments of enigmatic glory. Its surface almost entirely swamped, it stood, a watery nursery for many things wild and nightly. The creaking of the frogs with a number of other uncategorised sounds that emanated from here made it a scene to remember forever. In spite of its size, the field transformed into an untamed sanctuary on rainy nights; like a portal into a faraway jungle spilling out contents of its destination. While coming to terms with its existence, there is a feeling of regret that the new hostel block has inevitably consumed locations like this one whose presence I hardly valued until it was wiped away completely, like most things subtly dear.

Yet another spot which the hostel block has consumed is a monsoon pond that was beside the hockey field. This pond invariably overflowed and merged with the hockey field during rainy nights but existed right through the monsoon season. The road that runs beside the eighth block bridged this pond. Small as it was, the pond was complete with fish, reptiles, birds, pondweed and a shady end which was rendered thus by a tree spreading its arms benevolently upon it. Standing on that bridge with the pond on either side was a ticket away from the frivolous worries that humanity ever serves to impose on one. Perched kingfishers mounted above, ever on the vigil were a regular sight here. The sight of a snake slithering elegantly along its surface until distance stole it away from me to the arms of the tree’s shaded recess serves as it most fitting reminder. I miss the seasonal pond.

The rainy season here brings out the best in the campus; more so because it is the first impression made on the clean slates of our minds. The hours of twilight are when mother earth dons her most fancy garments; the light bright enough to showcase her beauty, and yet dark enough to hide that of her which we have served to make less desirable. The rainy season is one of ever longer twilights. The rain washes her clean of everything that human forces have served to besmirch with their untidy ways during its absence. It's rapturous thunder, and imposing rain drumming rhythmically on the earth is a welcome break from sounds of human noises violating the serene calm of the other seasons. When nature does choose to sing, she does so more beautifully than anyone else. The summer serves as a harsh reminder of what the earth will result in without rains to serve its respite. Pitifully, we are making summers harsher and longer than ever.

While cherishing the scenes I have written about among many others experienced, I regret to see their disappearance forever, and the fact that students from years to come shall never see the college in quite the light that I have. I realise that humans have created this campus; I am no hypocrite. But I regret the price being paid for its sustenance while questioning how much of it we really are sustaining. Having witnessed many greener campuses in similar locations, I only hope for a move in the direction of creating more such scenes rather than of their destruction.

Journey most cherished

This happened to be my submission for the yearbook last year. On reading it today after a very long time, it seems to me that what is written could be rather vague if read quickly by anyone else but its author. Anyway, let me see what opinions (if any) this post rakes up.

"It was a time when we were let into our world to be, for the next four years. All of us had joined NITK Surathkal, a reputed engineering college, with mixed feelings of satisfaction and regret. The ratios of these feelings however varied in every individual, while inspiring some to give the JEE another attempt. We all shared the enthusiasm that is the traditional sign of fledglings here, before it is hampered forever by repetition and modern electronic gadgets. Thus initiated was a journey most cherished and one that will be remembered by all of us forever.

My first year in college was filled with most nostalgic moments, which I would attribute primarily to the absence of work, a computer and other vices at hand. Places like the canteens, the beach and even Mangalore seemed much closer then. The excitement that accompanied the discovery of so many things, and a whole new way of life, helped to etch memories that much more deep. The joy of getting to the inter branch football finals, the sorrow of missing a penalty against the invincible final years. The joy of returning home for a week sometimes, and ironically missing the college midweek! A year it was, filled with long walks with the bunch, long nights of plain carefree discussion and discovering how wonderful life can be when there are five hundred people who can be a part of your happiness and difficulties. Though a few infernal machines started haunting the hostels by second semester, there were still the games of 28 (a card game) a night before our end semester exams. A revelation it was, the whole year, that most memorable are those times, closer to nature and farther from technological machines. (Fancy an engineer saying this!)

A time it was, when evenings were spent at the beach monitoring the progress of a torrential rain storm that is characteristic of the monsoon months here, step by step, as it inched over the horizon. The blue water changed colours, growing fiercer, clouds painted the sea with their ominous shadows. Everything took place so slowly, that it evaded the eye, ever on the lookout for sudden changes, yet happened so fast that it approached and enveloped us, taking us all aback. All this was witnessed with the sturdy shelter of the defiant lighthouse building. Land now turned into the canvas, painted by the wind with swift stokes of water curtains, as the torrential rain drenched us. All the while, innumerable pictures were taken with mobile phone cameras, hoping innocently that these moments could somehow be captured.

And the summer months brought forth the tranquil beauty of the sunset over the western coast. The sun eluding us, refusing to sink while we watched it continuously, yet disappearing a great deal if we dared to take our eyes off , all the while paving way for the emperor of the night to arise and rule. Majestically, did he display his prowess, shrouding the land and the water with silvery white light. A spectacle so brilliant that the most miserable and unfortunate creature upon this world shall find his life justified only to have senses to experience this masterpiece, to hear the mighty ocean rumble, smell the salty air, and be lost in this unparalleled bliss."