Minding Our Peas and Queues
Among our bhi-bhi Chinta’s varied household duties is that of produce shopping. As a local villager who’s known most folks since they were children (and is probably related to the rest) she has the best chance of getting decent quality produce at a reasonable price out of a profit-minded subji-wallah. She can usually haggle the price down from what a Westerner like me would be charged to something a bit more affordable. Also, since she has a bit of farmland in combination with her neighbors, she’s often able to bring in seasonal “local-local” vegetables at no cost.
However, this year everyone has the drought to contend with. Monsoon has not yet reached our region of India. The few rains of the last couple of weeks have been enough to moisten the ground, but not enough to do the farmers much good. And so, several days ago, Chinta turned up at the house empty-handed.
“Kuchne,” she reported disgustedly. Nothing.
Just the day before we had reeled in sticker shock at vegetable prices in Mandi. A subji wallah had informed us–with a straight face–that peas were 70 rupees the kilo. To understand the seriousness of this, most produce here normally runs under R20 a kilo when in season, with exotic stuff like broccoli running closer to R40, and fragile fruits like grapes running probably 60 or more. In this area the average produce seller has no qualms about quoting any price he feels like to Western tourists; after all, he reasons, they can afford it, and they’ll be gone in a couple weeks, anyway. Quoting the same price to a couple of Hindi-speaking women in local salwar suits and dupattas, especially in Mandi where the subji wallahs all sit cheek by jowl selling the same produce, means the vegetable shortages have started in earnest.
After Chinta struck out finding reasonable produce near her village, I wandered down the hill to check the produce available in Rewalsar. It was just as bleak. No tomatoes, at the height of the season. Stumpy, undergrown cucumbers. The kicker was finding peas that were not selling at R70 the kilo. No, these were priced at R80.
I returned home also without buying anything, and Chinta and I commiserated over the current state of vegetables. Nothing was worth buying, and what there was was too expensive.
“Well,” I said finally,” I guess we’ll be losing a bit of weight over the next couple months.”
Meantime, the water rationing continues. During rationing they turn off the water supply except for public handpumps for a period of anything from four hours to a full day. Today I woke up to greetings from my next door neighbor, a schoolteacher with two sons. He told me his water tank was empty; did I have any water? By now the morning water-tank check has become routine. Climb the stairs to the roof, fish out the practically indestructible iron ladder, and climb to the water tank platform. Then use a key to unlock the monkey-proofed lid, and peek inside.
Half empty, and not refilling. The water is off again.
I grew up in California, so I thought I understood water shortages. But the situation here calls for a lot more than just putting the toilet on “California rules*”. This year’s learning curve has been steep, with little room for error. Like everyone else I’ve quickly learned to stash a couple of full water jugs against the next round of rationing. Making sure there’s enough water in the drinking filter is now an automatic thing. The Indian-style bucket wash makes more sense than a more luxurious Western-style shower. And these days, no trip to Rewalsar is complete without seeing a group of Indians, Tibetans, and schoolchildren gathered around the public water pumps, waiting to fill buckets, bottles, and jugs.
As I write this, they’ve turned on the water again. The tank has refilled, and off in the distance are fluffy cumulus clouds, promising (but not yet delivering) rain. Now all that remains is to see what the subji wallahs are selling tomorrow…
* During water shortages in California, the basic rule is: “if it’s yellow, let it mellow. If it’s brown, flush it down.”
