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.
