Dark Waters

On the days when the maid takes off, Ken is responsible for washing up his lunch-box and spoon after he gets back from school. He loves the whole process.

He ends up using about half my Vim bar and most of my dishwash liquid on the little lunch-box, but I console myself that he's learning to take care of his own stuff and that's a BIG lesson.
And he's very thorough about his lunch box. And when he's done, he shows me the box and says it shines “Ting Tshuk!” (the sound of 'squeaky clean' from some TV ad).

Today, unfortunately, the maid didn't come. So he goes into the kitchen. It's 10 minutes and no sign of the child. I know that if I let him stay there, there will be no Pril, or Vim left in the kitchen, so I call him. I suddenly hear the sound of rushing water. I mean it sounds like a dam or a waterfall. “Ken! Why are you letting the tap run this way? Don't waste water!" The kitchen door opens and out comes Ken, drenched. "Mummy come right now!"

I rush to the kitchen to be met by a surge of water. The tap of the kitchen sink is broken; water is spurting everywhere. Memories of the bathroom pipe come to mind.

The Little K, who was almost asleep, wakes up fully and begins to giggle with glee. She loves water. She tries to catch the water, but is intimidated by the speed.

The mate is at work, so I call the apartment's plumber. He's on leave. The manager promises to send someone. I call the spouse. He advices me to plug the pipe with something. The watchman who is in charge of the apartment tank comes by about 10 minutes later. By now, both kids are drenched and giggling. I try hard to keep order, but it's hard when I'm giggling too. I try to change their clothes and the Little K thinks it's great fun to go get her dry clothes wet again.

I put on my my flip flops which are supposed to have some vacuum technology so they don't slip on wet floors. Every time I move, the suction thingy on the soles of my flip flops make a desperate squeaky noise like a mouse in trap. The kids burst into giggles again and so do I. It is weird. I take them off in an effort to regain some control and dignity. “Please put them on, Mummy. Make the funny noises,” begs Ken as if he's watching a clown.

The watchman arrives, reviews the situation and then observes that all the water from the common water tank would have been finished now because of the broken pipe. “I'll be back soon,” he says. By now I locate a valve and close it; water flow has reduced a little. I call the spouse again. He now advices me to take a big towel and hang it in front of the pipe because water will at least fall into the sink instead of showering my kitchen.

I first change both the Ks clothes again when there's another sound like the Niagara. I rush to the kitchen and find that water is gushing even more fiercely from the broken pipe. I figure that the watchman has – in his questionable wisdom – filled the apartment's water tank again.

Water is rushing out at about 10 litres per second and before I can get my breath, there's water seeping out of the bathroom and into the drawing room, and the bedrooms. It's like a horror flick. The Ks come running out and fall once more in the water, soaking themselves - again. I am wet through. I get Ken to salvage whatever he can from the wreck. “Put everything up in the sofas or the beds,” I advice. While he's at it, I call the manager in panic.

“Tell the watchman to close the main tank's valve. We have a terrible leak here.”

“I know madam. You see, the plumber is not here.”

“Yes but opening the main tank's valve is increasing the pressure. There's so much water everywhere.”

“Don't worry madam. I'll send the watchman.”

“He came here already. Tell him to close the main valve.”

“Yes madam. He has gone to open the main valve. When he comes downstairs, I will
tell him to come to your house.”

“CLOSE THE MAIN VALVE.”

“Yes madam. He is not a technical person, you see. He will see what to do.”

“CLOSE THE MAIN VALVE. MY HOUSE IS FLOODING.”

“You don't worry madam. He will come. But you will have to adjust till tomorrow you see. The plumber will be here at 11 tomorrow morning.”

“CLOSE THE MAIN VALVE. MY HOUSE IS FLOODING. I HAVE LITTLE CHILDREN!!!!”

“How can we close the main valve madam? We always open it at 4 'o' clock. We have to supply water to the apartment, you see. It's the rules.”

I bang the phone down. This is exactly the sort of thing that happens when ex-government employees take up post-retirement jobs as apartment managers. During this entire conversation, the kids are having a ball, treating the floor like a skating rink. Even Kaavya's ultra-absorbent diapers are dripping.

I call the spouse again. He listens as I rave and rant and end up in a fit of sobs and giggles combined. The man is on his way home. He knows Hyderabad well enough to realise that nothing will get done till he does it himself.

I herd the kids into the bedroom, change them into dry clothes again, command them to sit quietly and read on the bed, try to tie anything I can get my hands on (which happens to be Ken's shorts) to the pipe to control the flow. Then, I get out the wiper and begin the daunting task of getting the ankle high water out of my house.

The bell rings and the watchman is there. He looks at the water, takes in the situation at a glance and rushes back upstairs to close the valve. In 10 minutes more, the water is flowing steadily into the sink and after a little more work, most of the the water is out of the drawing room and the kitchen.

I go to change my dress and Ken takes this opportunity to help me, by (a) pushing all the water from his room and my bedroom into the drawing room (which I have just cleaned out), instead of intothe bathroom which is on the way, and (b) breaking my wiper.

I go to the kitchen, make myself a cup of coffee and settle down on top of the cushions and blankets piled on top of the sofa, too exhausted even to scream at him. The coffee refreshes me, but the sight of him amuses me. He is struggling to set matters right by sweeping out the water with an old broom, trying to gather the sticks which are dropping off the broom and floating in the water, running after the stray sticks and falling butt-first into the water, getting the water onto the walls and into corners which were not even damp before. It sends me into another fit of giggles.

A few minutes later, the mate arrives, fixes everything and I realise all over again one of the reasons why I adore him. I love fix-it-ness in men.