Monday, September 24, 2012

Shit happens! We are not potty-trained for a Clean Up Act


Of the many Acts that are passed in the Parliament, a ‘Clean–up Act’ will never see the light of the day. Indians hold the distinction in hastily cleaning up their acts only after things get out of hand and scandal-gates open up. This applies to all --be it the government or a small colony full of bickering neighbours. This fact was divinely revealed for me a few days ago.
 
Amidst the gargantuan bungalows in west Delhi’s posh Punjabi Bagh, there lies is a slum spread across 2,200 yards. To be honest they are really flats built up on an area that is otherwise occupied by a bungalow in Punjabi Bagh. So by Punajbi Bagh standards the colony is no less than a slum (similar to the conundrum attached to Parsee poverty line). I happened to move into one 2BHK flat in the colony five months back.

Demographically, the colony is a cosmopolitan – a majority of course constitutes Punajbis (its Delhi after all). The several squabbles among the neighbours have never let a resident welfare association form in the colony. Yet, the colony is not bereft of petty politics and groupism. And they are proud of it. We are like this only naa! With around 30 flats, the colony has been lovingly nicknamed gande paani waale flats by the MCD workers. I was unaware of the history behind the genesis of the name until one day.
That was the day when butter chicken, kadhai paneer, mooli ke paranthe, along with idli, sambhar, rice and machher jhol – all of whom had been satisfactorily digested, and flushed to dwell in the dark underworld – decided to seek revenge. The flavours united in the sewers only to re-enter our homes one dark rainy day. In other words, our sewers choked. That’s when I came to know about the history of gande paani waale flats.
We were lucky. The water level at our place was just enough for a cockroach to drown and a small paper boat to sail safely in the living room and the kitchen. Since ours is a duplex, our bedrooms upstairs had a dry day.
The choked sewers brought about an astonishing display of bonhomie amongst neighbours, who are otherwise at each other’s throats. ‘Who is paying what?’ ‘Why should I pay?’ ‘Why does your kid cry at night?’ ‘Why do you feed the dogs here?’ ‘Why is your undergarment in my balcony?’ My neighbours hold a PhD in digging out topics for picking up a fight. But on that day, they all united, just the way their food united in the sewers.
Just the way people in 8000 B.C. Scotland did when for the first time, they built indoor plumbing pipes that carried wastes to a nearby creek. The same bonhomie was observed 4,000 years later in Iraq, when people built 30 to 40 ft deep cesspits under the homes, lined with perforated brick. Closer to home in 3000 to 2000 B.C., the phenomena, was repeated by the inhabitants of the Indus Valley Civilisation when they built a separate room in the house to be a latrine room connected to a sewer in the street. 
But in Punjabi Bagh, sadly the genius of an architect, who designed the apartments, learned nothing from his predecessors. Bidding farewell to ancient wisdom, he designed a sewer system that was completely flawed. The ground floors have been constructed in the basement. So our sewers are below the basement and the water needs to be pumped out to join the mother drain on main road.
The Man Friday of our colony, who hasn’t been paid for three months is responsible for the switching on the pump everyday and ridding the sewers of used condoms and sanitary napkins whenever they jam the pump rendering it useless. But in any case, with an eerie regularity, every year on a rainy day the pump gives up. Kaput. And that’s when the neighbours forget about the money, dogs, wailing kids and undergarments and get together for a clean up act.

That day money was collected. A new pump was installed. A sewer cleaner was brought in for disaster management. The cleaner was promptly paid an advance and he disappeared only to come back drunk on country-made liquor. All of this was done within three hours and for Rs 30,000. Yes, they can! Indians have it in them. They can really get things in a matter of minutes. All they need is collective will for a clean-up act. With that faint glimmer of hope lingering in my mind, I went off to sleep.
I woke up the next day. Went out to collect my newspaper. Met my neighbour aunty at the door. I smiled. She – cold and distant turned her back on me.

We’ll meet next year again.

3 comments:

Unknown said...

hahaha.....u actually narrated that incident.....am glad u did....wish the culprits could read this....even if they do....it wont matter to those thick skinned Morons....

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