Thirst: Chapters 1–11

In the distance, the flyover bridge soars into the sky and snakes across the bay.

Lately the monsoon season comes later and later, which means less and less water.

I do remember, and we laugh, although it’s sad to think it was probably a frustrating day when the water trickled rather than flowed.

Part of our view is blocked by billboards with glamorous Bollywood movie stars—billboards that are larger than our house.

Last year, a charity helped paint our homes and fix our leaking tin roofs. Some said it was because the people whizzing past in their air-conditioned cars on the flyover bridge didn’t want to see decaying, moldy “slums.”

Well, they are awfully lucky to have so much water to spare.

“Minni,” he says, “I wish there was a way to make all this seawater drinkable. Then there’d be enough for us all.”
“There is a way!” I say. “Our teacher told us it’s possible—she said it’s called desalination. But it’s expensive, and you need a huge factory to strain the salt out.”

Water pressure must be weak today. When it doesn’t get through the web of makeshift hoses, people must line up at the main source.

“I might make the best tea and pakodas, but your ma is the greatest at everything else,” he says, and sighs in contentment.

We don’t mention it because our father also believes in the proverb illustrated by the three monkeys—one with his hands over his eyes, the second with them over his ears, and the third covering his mouth—symbolizing “See no evil, hear no evil, and say no evil.”

Baba’s sitting back in his worn-out wicker chair, but now he straightens up, alert.

Ma tousles Sanjay’s hair.

Sanjay is downcast whenever Ma dreams of him getting another job. She doesn’t believe in his chef dream like me.

I wrestle with this knowledge. What would we have done if Ma’s boss hadn’t offered?

After dinner I sit outside on our stoop.

We call her Naan Aunty because she makes the best naans—she bakes hundreds every day for the local shops, and for some fancy restaurants too.

Uncle is such a meek man, I can’t imagine him fighting.

In my excitement, I practically knock over a game board placed on a stool, and everyone shouts, “Minni! Look where you’re walking, girl.”

When we are almost at the banyan tree, we hear Shanti blowing into her conch shell, so we race over and find her sitting under the tree’s canopy.

“Today I’ll tell the story of a wedding and a most interesting dowry.”

If I close my eyes, I can see the deep red sari that Reva wore, and the beautiful henna etched onto her hands.

In the glare of the light, I can see the man has a scar on his cheek.

I eat my roti with ghee and jam as Ma braids my hair.

He’s on the verge of tears. All his boldness and bluster are gone.

Sanjay’s are all pictures of mouthwatering food. Golden samosas and chicken korma.

It’s just Ma and me, so Baba’s rhythmic snoring can’t lull me to sleep.

When he is with Amit, he sure has a knack for getting into trouble.

He sprained his ankle and had to hobble around with a brace on his foot.

Still, my brain won’t stop spinning. It churns like the sea during a storm.

Half of the earth is green and lush.

The other half is parched, dry, and dying.

Sanjay finally called us last night from the farm. It was good to hear his voice, even though the connection was full of static, since the farm is so far from any city.

“Minni, it’s really nice here in the country. The air smells different, and we grow vegetables that get sold in the bazaar,” Sanjay told us.

Last year when Ma fell sick, the doctor said it was from the water—and now we always boil and strain it to kill the germs.

She examines Ma and says Ma is probably right—that she’s picked up some kind of virus from contaminated food or water.