‘Singh is king, Singh is king, Singh is king...’ the song asserting Singh’s monarchical status blasted in through the window. ‘Well, Singh may be king,’ I muttered, ‘but the gas deliverer is emperor.’ Oh, yes, make no mistake about that. He’s the supreme being for whom the whole household waits, putting everything else, however urgent it might be, on hold.
This is obviously a pan-Indian phenomenon, for when we visited a friend in Mohali, I remember how, on hearing the doorbell, she yelled from the bathroom, ‘Must be the gas man! Quick, open the door. Don’t let him go; I’ll be out in a minute.’
The gas cylinder is the thing. Between the receiving of the refill cylinder and the first motion of booking it, ‘all the interim is like a phantasma or a hideous dream’. Earlier, the entire exercise had been designed to test the patience of a saint. So we ordinary mortals ended up with high blood pressure, palpitation, nervous tics and jumpiness; in other words, we became neurotic wrecks.
Just the act of getting through to the gas agency to book a fresh cylinder was fraught with suspense. I have even taken leave for that – desperate situations require desperate remedies. I knew the two numbers by memory and I would be glued to the telephone making calls alternately to them, always hoping the perennially engaged numbers got disengaged at some point. They did, but that was in the hallowed lunch interval during which it was clearly sacrosanct for the employees to even touch the telephones. Finally I had no option but to go personally to the agency for the purpose. With the 24-hour automatic booking facility now available, at least the first part is easy.
But after the booking, the second stage – the guessing game – begins. When will the cylinder come home? The automatic booking system has its merits, but it’s a clever system for you can’t clear doubts or ask questions to a machine. You wait on tenterhooks for the SMS informing you your cash memo is ready and the cylinder will be delivered shortly.
Shortly – that’s the key word. How many days is ‘shortly’? Your guess is as good as mine but no one wishes to take a chance. Short of laying the red carpet to welcome the delivery man, all arrangements are made to receive him any time he condescends to stride in regally, the sceptre in the form of the cylinder balanced on his shoulder.
‘Someone should be in the house when the gas man arrives,’ is the golden rule around which every activity is planned. Recently we waited two days for the cylinder, taking turns even to go to the bathroom. I also had the money ready in my hand. When the power failed once, I kept the front door open and planted myself on the settee, eyes fixed unblinkingly on the gate and ears peeled for the sound of the delivery vehicle clanking to a stop. But it was like waiting for Godot; nothing happened, nobody came.
On the third morning, the doorbell finally rang, not in the strident, impatient manner that is the signature tune of the delivery man, but hesitantly. Maybe it’s a new, more polite person, I thought. The seedy-looking chap who stood on the doorstep gave a wan smile. ‘I need five hundred rupees for a heart operation,’ he said, looking significantly at the notes in my hand. I recoiled. I’d got the smell of alcohol. ‘Sir is not here and there’s no money,’ I said, blatantly painting my generous husband a tight-fisted scrooge. ‘My family’s going hungry without money,’ he persisted. ‘So is mine,’ I retorted, ‘without gas.’ ‘Oh, gas! That’s for the gas? You won’t get it now; they’re all on strike. Give me a hundred, or a fifty. Even twenty would do.’ I got rid of him with ten, shocked with the news about the strike.
I immediately rushed to the gas agency and joined the queue. I heard a man hurl abuse at the girls there, another resorted to threats, a third wanted to see the elusive manager immediately. The girls listened with deadpan expressions, on occasion exchanging quick, amused glances. When my turn came one girl said my booking was cancelled for no one was at home when the cylinder was brought.
I couldn't believe my ears. ‘Someone was there every second,’ I protested and added, ‘Casabianca is my middle name.’ Unimpressed she continued, ‘it’s been re-booked and you’ll get it shortly.’
I'm still waiting...
[khyrubutter@yahoo.com]
(A fortnightly column by the city-based writer, academic and author of the Butterfingers series)
