Ganeshguri, although a beautiful, well-equipped hostel in a quiet neighborhood, suffered from a chronic water shortage. The reason was the infernal water pump.
Every second morning, the pump’s motor would conk out in a cloud of dense smoke, and the 60-odd denizens of the hostel would be left staring at each other with bleary eyes, unwashed faces and straining colons.
One way to ensure good hygiene was to draw water from the pump’s open well in our backyard, like the fair maidens in our villages. Another was to steal others’ water and use it like there was no tomorrow. Public opinion leaned heavily in favor of the second option, but the laws of demand and supply meant that there were too many good-for-nothing water-pinchers trolling the hallways and too few full buckets to go around.
One morning, as Ravi was hauling two big buckets of fresh hand-drawn water up the staircase to his second-floor room, his colon and mouth urging him to complete his journey quickly, albeit for different reasons, a loud shout pierced the low-pitched morning hubbub.
“Raviiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiii. PH-O-O-O-O-NE!”
Ravi didn’t need to contemplate. This must be a call from Deogarh.
In those days, STD calls were prohibitively expensive, so there was not a moment to lose. Ravi left his two bucketfuls on the staircase landing and raced down to the phone.
“Hello, kaun?”
No answer.
“Hello …. Hello?”
No answer yet again.
Ravi thought about this for a second. “Hmm… lagta hai phone cut gaya hai.”
He turned around and headed up the stairs. And, you guessed it, the buckets were gone!
