Do you know what they are saying in Chennai?" asked our autorickshaw driver as he splashed through one more pothole, sending streams of dirty water on to the scooterist riding by our side. "They are saying that ever since the Kannagi statue was knocked down, the curse over Chennai has gone." Perhaps he knew we were too rain-sozzled to react. And he decided to make the most of his captive audience. He had picked us up as we stood dripping like drenched rats on the road outside Central station. We had stood there for nearly 15 minutes, lugging heavy suitcases and waving at every passing vehicle. The unseasonal rains had driven the city crazy. Our driver was talking animatedly now about Kannagi who had stood on the Marina beside several other Tamil luminaries for more than three decades. With her hair streaming behind her and her anklet-wielding hand held aloft, she stood facing the city of Chennai in what seemed to be an eternal pose of curse. Not many Chennaiites had seen her statue. I certainly had not and neither had my husband who was born and brought up in the city. Yet, whenever Chennai faced tough times, Kannagi was blamed. Perhaps she would destroy Chennai just as she had destroyed Madurai. But no one dared to remove her. Droughts came and went. Cyclones hit the city. Governments rose and fell. And the years rolled by. And then, one night, a couple of weeks ago, a lorry driver accidentally -- or maybe intentionally -- knocked her off her pedestal. Maybe the parched years had finally got to him. Chennai was reeling under another drought and the rains had failed once more. Enough is enough, somebody said. Kannagi must go. And then, believe it or not, suddenly the heavens opened up. Unseasonal rains drowned the city and filled the dried-up Red Hills reservoir almost to the brim. Chennai was swamped. "I'm a scientific man," our auto driver was saying now. "I worked for Glaxo before I took to auto driving. I don't believe all this rubbish. Why blame poor Kannagi? Have we not had rains in all these 30-odd years she has stood there? "But, you know, maybe it's a good idea! Every time there is a drought let them knock off one more statue from Marina. Soon we can have a clean beachfront without any of these characters!" We rattled merrily along, jets of water flying out like wings on two sides. Water. The bane of Chennai. And now it was flowing like the disputed Cauvery down the roads and into buildings, out of the blocked storm-water drains and into potholes. People waded grimly through ankle-deep sewage, their trousers rolled up, their heads covered in plastic bags. An overturned water lorry lay soaking in the rain, a grim reminder of the city's plight. Driving a water lorry is like guiding a rocket loaded with liquid fuel, my rocket scientist husband always said. The driver has to allow for the instability caused by hydrodynamics. No wonder then that those dangerously veering water tankers had caused hundreds of accidents on the overcrowded streets of Chennai. And yet, without them, the city would have been finished long ago. Most of our relatives in Chennai have forgotten what it was like to have tap water. They buy water in tankloads for bathing and washing. Enormous containers of Bisleri water for drinking stand in their kitchens. Their monthly water bills touch astronomical figures. Most of the wells dried up a year or two ago and the few functional bore wells cough up bitter brackish water useless even for washing utensils. Guests have become a burden in a once-hospitable city because washing and bathing are now luxuries, which most people cannot afford to share. Water is the focus of all conversation. Water queues. The technique of toting heavy water-filled pitchers. The unearthly hours at which taps sometimes spit out a few drops of corporation water. The trouble the elderly have in getting water from the corporation lorry. Plastic pitchers versus brass ones. Babies being bathed in Bisleri water. Jayalalitha's water trains. Like the weather in Britain, water in Chennai has been an inexhaustible topic. Will things change now? Maybe they will -- at least temporarily. Just an extra Rs 10, our automan said when we finally staggered out of his vehicle. After all, you have brought the rains with you... I cannot ask for more. So much for science! Gita Aravamudan is on dry ground now... back home in Bangalore. Tell us what you think of this diary Be part of an exciting venture! Write a Diary!
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