"Another water meter missing, Ma'am!"
The non-commissioned officer yelled from the car-park. Shading his eyes from sun's glare, he looked at me , a hassled mother of two,with a toddler squirming on my hips.
"Now what?"
"Now I will go to the guardroom and lodge a complaint ma'am."
A kick and a vroom, the NCO departed in a cloud of exhaust, adjusting the chinstrap of his helmet.
This morning , while feeding my baby cerelac , I had noticed that the neighbouring lawn was flooded with water, and the cast-iron cover of the main sewer was missing. The NCO came almost as soon as I had rung up, God bless the faujis.
As my baby wiped her cerelac smudged lips on my dupatta, I just wondered how audacious this thief was.This was the second block from the dead end of the colony, and the fifth water meter to be stolen.My row consisted of empty blocks. One squadron had moved away, and lots of houses automatically fell vacant.
Water meters were made of brass, and fetched a tidy sum in the market. Still, removing them from their secure anchoring , involved patient hammering, and great deal of metallic clanging.Whoever was stealing, was taking a huge risk. Sheer desperation for quick bucks. Hunger and poverty?
I shook my head and went indoors, to run water for my baby's bath.
My maid was late. I sighed. Everytime a theft was reported , the servant quarters bore the brunt.
The maids were quizzed, their husbands grilled, a few drunk suspects detained , and then released later in the day.I knew my maid, Lukshmi would be leading the shouting brigade in bullying the MP(Military Police )guys back.What a farce ! I thought as I soaped my babys fat thighs , and tickled her. She giggled and blew soap bubbles.
The doorbell rang angrily. Once, twice."I am coming ,coming"
One has to live alone in a fauji quarter with two babies to fathom the bullish-ness of the maids. Predictably, Luksmi huffed in angrily, hitched up her salwar, and attacked the invisible dirt on the floor with rare ferocity. I stood wringing my soapy hands .
"Kya bole aap us police walle ko?"(what did you tell that police chap?)
"I didn't say anything Lakhi,I was just lodging a complaint for the theft."
My child was alone in the tub. I had to run to the toilet.
Lakhi came after me , brandishing her broom like a sword.
She stood blocking the toilet door , "then why does he bother minu's father so much?" She demanded.
"I don't know."I meekly answered, gathering my wet and startled baby into a dry towel.
Minu's father, or lukshmi's husband was one of the unfortunate few to be bundled off to the guardroom after every theft, due to his habitual drunken-ness.
I could empathize with her anger, but the forces had a pattern to follow themselves. One couldn't interfere too much.
"Clang!"
We both froze. Lakhi looked at me. and then at the bathroom window from where the sound emanated."Clang clang." Lakhi raced to the outside balcony , I teetered on the edge of the commode , to get a good look. "Clang ".
I saw a grimy chap in mud brown pants and a dirty vest, near the ground floor water inlet , unscrewing something and stuffing it into his pant pocket, a jet of water issued out and hit him in the legs , unsteady -ing him. The water-meter thief!!
"Chor, lakhi chor."( thief, lakhi, the thief!) I screamed hoarsely, and my baby began to wail.
Lakhi bounded down the stairs, two-three at a time shouting fithiest abuses in punjabi,slicing the air with the broom."I will slice your entrails , your mother/sister are ****" are two rough translations.
All the heroics and abuses could not stop the thief. He made away , effortlessly sprinting through the reed covered canal bank that lay behind our block. A seasoned professional. But we had a good look of him. Lakhi and I. It also cemented our frayed relations. Lakhi's husband swore on minu's head , to catch the thief. When Lakhi recounted this, I laughed"Must be drunk then"
"Nahin memsab, Usne to kal se ek boond nahi piya." Lakhi's round eyes grew rounder as she recounted the husband's oath.
Two weeks passed in peace. For two reasons, our two neighbouring blocks were bereft of any water meter, and lakhi's husband was off alcohol, or so the duo swore. "Till I catch the thief and wring his neck with my bare hands"Her husband hiccoughed bravely to me one morning. Lakhi looked over him with sheer pride.I thought of the canal-side sprinter. I had to stifle a guffaw. It seemed pathetically impossible.
On the third Sunday, Lakhi, rang the bell at 8a.m. Very unusual. Sundays began at !0a.m. So what happened ? "Chor pakda gaya memsab."She recounted gleefully. Then proudly"Minu's father caught him."
Between sips of tea, Lakhi recounted how her husband was cycling his bakery tricycle (he worked as a delivery man for the station bakery) back , last evening when he heard clangs from another empty block, next to the bakery.He saw the thief at work and quietly slipped away to the bakery and phoned the guardroom. The police arrived in jeeploads, and combed the block and the canal bank for hours, without any result.They were about to pounce upon minu's father for false alarm when he (the informer) saw constant bubbles issuing from the water edge .
The thief , loathe to move from his unfinished business , had hid in the murky water, and was breathing through a reed, james bond fashion.He was hauled up and caught with his bag of tools. His cache of stolen meters were recovered too, when he was treated"nice and proper "(Lakhi's language )
and the address gleaned.
Minu had been called to the police station to identify the thief, as an eye witness. So was I.
What we saw was no longer the confident sprinter we had encountered. He was disheveled and scared looking boyish -man.He was drooling from his mouth, and bore blunt-injury marks on his face and neck. He was being treated too harshly.
Before I could ask as to what is to become of him, Lakhi dragged me away, with a censuring look.
Her husband's vindication was all that mattered to her, and to me too, I forced myself to admit.
He actually had given up alcohol, and was awarded the "prestigious job"of sweeping the vast area outside the ATC . Lakhi moved up the social ladder of the servants' and landed herself a larger quarter in a "burra" sahib's bungalow.
Her husband hit the bottle with redoubled vengeance,given the better pay.He was grounded (suspended) for most of the days, but Lakhi could be found sitting in various homes, recounting the tale ,where her husband caught the thief , with obvious relish, over glasses of steaming hot tea.
The non-commissioned officer yelled from the car-park. Shading his eyes from sun's glare, he looked at me , a hassled mother of two,with a toddler squirming on my hips.
"Now what?"
"Now I will go to the guardroom and lodge a complaint ma'am."
A kick and a vroom, the NCO departed in a cloud of exhaust, adjusting the chinstrap of his helmet.
This morning , while feeding my baby cerelac , I had noticed that the neighbouring lawn was flooded with water, and the cast-iron cover of the main sewer was missing. The NCO came almost as soon as I had rung up, God bless the faujis.
As my baby wiped her cerelac smudged lips on my dupatta, I just wondered how audacious this thief was.This was the second block from the dead end of the colony, and the fifth water meter to be stolen.My row consisted of empty blocks. One squadron had moved away, and lots of houses automatically fell vacant.
Water meters were made of brass, and fetched a tidy sum in the market. Still, removing them from their secure anchoring , involved patient hammering, and great deal of metallic clanging.Whoever was stealing, was taking a huge risk. Sheer desperation for quick bucks. Hunger and poverty?
I shook my head and went indoors, to run water for my baby's bath.
My maid was late. I sighed. Everytime a theft was reported , the servant quarters bore the brunt.
The maids were quizzed, their husbands grilled, a few drunk suspects detained , and then released later in the day.I knew my maid, Lukshmi would be leading the shouting brigade in bullying the MP(Military Police )guys back.What a farce ! I thought as I soaped my babys fat thighs , and tickled her. She giggled and blew soap bubbles.
The doorbell rang angrily. Once, twice."I am coming ,coming"
One has to live alone in a fauji quarter with two babies to fathom the bullish-ness of the maids. Predictably, Luksmi huffed in angrily, hitched up her salwar, and attacked the invisible dirt on the floor with rare ferocity. I stood wringing my soapy hands .
"Kya bole aap us police walle ko?"(what did you tell that police chap?)
"I didn't say anything Lakhi,I was just lodging a complaint for the theft."
My child was alone in the tub. I had to run to the toilet.
Lakhi came after me , brandishing her broom like a sword.
She stood blocking the toilet door , "then why does he bother minu's father so much?" She demanded.
"I don't know."I meekly answered, gathering my wet and startled baby into a dry towel.
Minu's father, or lukshmi's husband was one of the unfortunate few to be bundled off to the guardroom after every theft, due to his habitual drunken-ness.
I could empathize with her anger, but the forces had a pattern to follow themselves. One couldn't interfere too much.
"Clang!"
We both froze. Lakhi looked at me. and then at the bathroom window from where the sound emanated."Clang clang." Lakhi raced to the outside balcony , I teetered on the edge of the commode , to get a good look. "Clang ".
I saw a grimy chap in mud brown pants and a dirty vest, near the ground floor water inlet , unscrewing something and stuffing it into his pant pocket, a jet of water issued out and hit him in the legs , unsteady -ing him. The water-meter thief!!
"Chor, lakhi chor."( thief, lakhi, the thief!) I screamed hoarsely, and my baby began to wail.
Lakhi bounded down the stairs, two-three at a time shouting fithiest abuses in punjabi,slicing the air with the broom."I will slice your entrails , your mother/sister are ****" are two rough translations.
All the heroics and abuses could not stop the thief. He made away , effortlessly sprinting through the reed covered canal bank that lay behind our block. A seasoned professional. But we had a good look of him. Lakhi and I. It also cemented our frayed relations. Lakhi's husband swore on minu's head , to catch the thief. When Lakhi recounted this, I laughed"Must be drunk then"
"Nahin memsab, Usne to kal se ek boond nahi piya." Lakhi's round eyes grew rounder as she recounted the husband's oath.
Two weeks passed in peace. For two reasons, our two neighbouring blocks were bereft of any water meter, and lakhi's husband was off alcohol, or so the duo swore. "Till I catch the thief and wring his neck with my bare hands"Her husband hiccoughed bravely to me one morning. Lakhi looked over him with sheer pride.I thought of the canal-side sprinter. I had to stifle a guffaw. It seemed pathetically impossible.
On the third Sunday, Lakhi, rang the bell at 8a.m. Very unusual. Sundays began at !0a.m. So what happened ? "Chor pakda gaya memsab."She recounted gleefully. Then proudly"Minu's father caught him."
Between sips of tea, Lakhi recounted how her husband was cycling his bakery tricycle (he worked as a delivery man for the station bakery) back , last evening when he heard clangs from another empty block, next to the bakery.He saw the thief at work and quietly slipped away to the bakery and phoned the guardroom. The police arrived in jeeploads, and combed the block and the canal bank for hours, without any result.They were about to pounce upon minu's father for false alarm when he (the informer) saw constant bubbles issuing from the water edge .
The thief , loathe to move from his unfinished business , had hid in the murky water, and was breathing through a reed, james bond fashion.He was hauled up and caught with his bag of tools. His cache of stolen meters were recovered too, when he was treated"nice and proper "(Lakhi's language )
and the address gleaned.
Minu had been called to the police station to identify the thief, as an eye witness. So was I.
What we saw was no longer the confident sprinter we had encountered. He was disheveled and scared looking boyish -man.He was drooling from his mouth, and bore blunt-injury marks on his face and neck. He was being treated too harshly.
Before I could ask as to what is to become of him, Lakhi dragged me away, with a censuring look.
Her husband's vindication was all that mattered to her, and to me too, I forced myself to admit.
He actually had given up alcohol, and was awarded the "prestigious job"of sweeping the vast area outside the ATC . Lakhi moved up the social ladder of the servants' and landed herself a larger quarter in a "burra" sahib's bungalow.
Her husband hit the bottle with redoubled vengeance,given the better pay.He was grounded (suspended) for most of the days, but Lakhi could be found sitting in various homes, recounting the tale ,where her husband caught the thief , with obvious relish, over glasses of steaming hot tea.
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