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VOL. XXIII NO. 15, NOVEMBER 16-30, 2013
Short 'N' Snappy

The pump that stays put

Will it? Or won’t it? That is the question that is uppermost in the minds of those who live in Chennai and need to worry about it. The Man from Madras Musings alludes to the rain. And cur rently, going by the vague pronouncements of the Astrological, sorry, Meteorological Department, it appears to be anybody’s guess as to whether it will. To MMM, who being married is naturally inclined to pessimism, it does not look like it will rain. There is a nip in the air, which is usually felt once the monsoons are over. Which means the monsoons are er... over, only we did not notice them come or go.

In which case, where do we go from here? Straight to the loft is MMM’s recommendation, in order to extricate those plastic pots in which we stored water in the years of scarcity. In case you don’t have them, you need not worry, there is at least one five star hotel in the city, built on the site of an erstwhile film studio, that has enough and more to spare, for it features them as items of décor. But be that as it may, getting the pot is not an issue. As the old adage goes, you may take the pot to the water, but you cannot make it fill (was this something about horses and drinking? But the line was too good to be dropped and so MMM has put it in. Like the moving finger at Nebuchadnezzar’s feast, MMM moves on…).

Years ago, when MMM was a Cherubic Child of Chennai, the city had its first experience of a prolonged drought. The MMM household had till then taken its ancestral well for granted. An automatic pump, that would switch on whenever water in the overhead tank ran low, would keep going at all odd hours and ensure that MMM and family spent water like water. But came a day when the pump gave out sounds indicative of great distress and, having laboured on for a few minutes, called it a day. The well, it was found, had run dry and nobody had bothered looking into it.

For reasons of ritual purity, MMM’s ancestors had a rather dim view of piped water supply. “You never knew where it had been,” was the general opinion. But now with the well churning out mud and also an occasional clay idol or two of the elephant-headed god (dumped there after worship), a quick decision had to be taken. The elders abandoned all orthodoxy and welcomed with open arms the hand pump. Water came to it only once a day and that too for an hour at an ungodly 3.00 a.m. But you should have seen the enthusiasm with which everyone worked the pump. Its well-being and its treatment during times of sickness (which was often) was the topic of discussion at all times. Some family members became experts in detecting the early signals of failure and their expertise was much sought after.

Everyone learnt to live with limited water supply. The bathtubs, without which no bathroom was complete in the old days, were put to new use – as water storage facilities. The MMM family has since then moved on to borewells, deep borewells and deeper bore-wells. But the hand pump has never been dislodged, remaining as it does as a reminder to the fact that Chennai is a water-starved city. In all this excitement, the old automatic pump was forgotten. It never made a comeback even in times of plenty. The considered opinion was that now the family had learnt to live with restricted water supply, such luxuries were unwanted. The well was fitted with a new pump, whose working had to be monitored strictly, failing which it would draw excess water that would deplete the well and also cause the overhead tank to overflow. It was functional, but it did not have the charm of the old one.

The automatic lingered on for years, however, a ghostly relic of a water-rich past until the time came for it to be sold for scrap. But there are days when MMM can even now remember the musical tone of its suddenly coming to life at all odd hours of the day.

The rain dance

Writing in this reminiscent vein, The Man from Madras Musings is also reminded of various attempts at bringing rain to the city. The year that saw the hand pump arrive at MMM household was a particularly bad one and it was even rumoured that the city would be evacuated. Then came the announcement that the Russians (or was it the Americans? Not that this made a difference, as we were non-aligned anyway) had been invited to try something called cloud seeding. MMM had visions of men going up in the air and causing clouds to form. It was said that they would spray a chemical which would make the clouds come crowding in and pour forth like nobody’s business. Nothing of the sort happened. The men came, they went up in the air and then muttered what to MMM appeared rather flimsy excuses – wind speed was either too much or too little and that there was an already existing cloud cover. The fact remain ed that no water came down, though the men did, and lots of money went up in smoke.

A few years later, when all appeared to be going well, the city witnessed a curious spectacle. And then again, in a country where the Archaeological Survey begins digging for gold based on a godman’s dream, perhaps not so curious after all. But spectacle it certainly was for the protagonist involved was a violinist who was certainly a spectacle though his music was not spectacular. Listening to him or, more importantly, seeing him perform made you understand the difference between a violinist and non-violent person. But be that as it may, this personality offered to perform a rain song or, to put it correctly, a rain raga. This involved the man standing in a tub of water and playing the fiddle. But no rains came, no matter how inspiring his violin was. You just can’t fiddle with nature, is the way MMM looks at it.

Oddly enough, it rained copiously the year the entire city took a pledge to conserve rainwater. And it continued raining each year till the rainwater harvesting schemes began to be given the go-by. Perhaps there is a lesson in this for every one of us.

Tailpiece

The season of Music and Dance is just around the corner. The Man from Madras Musings is getting ready to go Sabha-hopping. And as he limbers his sinews to cope with the stress and strain, he cannot help reflecting that to be a good artiste, nimble fingers are all that is required. For it appears to MMM that today’s artistes spend more time typing out e-invites and spreading the good word on social media than on some serious practice.

-MMM

 

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In this issue

When fire strikes twice
The hawkers may leave, but will our pavements return?
Chess and corporate strategy
Book Review
A record-holder of sorts
The master builder
On the trail of a hotel proprietor who drowned
Another Madras first
Sharing wealth with music
How good, this Ranji Trophy team of ours?
An energetic cricketer reaching his peak

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