lost waters
‘where has all the water gone?’
i asked amma at breakfast,
when the taps were bone dry.
‘there is none in the borewell’, she said
so your father has gone to fetch some
‘but who took it’, i asked
‘nobody, silly’
she replied,
but i knew something wasn’t right.
she said it so casually
like it didn’t matter really,
but i began to worry
how would i make myself some juice
or give my dog a bath?
what would i dip my brushes in
to paint and make some art?
a few days later,
at my grandfather’s house
the birds sounded like they were quarrelling
in the afternoon heat.
my grandmother poured water
into her coconut shell bird-feeder
‘they’re making plans..’
she told me,
‘of where to vacation -
their lakes are gone
so they have to go too.’
a cormorant glared at me,
as if it was all my fault
‘but where did the lakes go’,
i asked my grandmother
‘oh, they lie
under the towering houses
of all your neighbours’
she replied.
‘i never knew we could drown rivers’, i told her
she smiled sadly,
‘we can do just about anything, it seems’, she replied.
i couldn’t stop thinking
about how much of water
i was made of:
sixty per cent my teacher had told me.
if we ran out of it all
would i evaporate too?
a few days later,
when it began to rain
i put out a bucket as the water fell
and waited until the downpour stopped.
‘we can do just about anything,’ as my grandmother said.
if i could save my pocket money to use on a rainy day,
i would save a little water each time,
so that when someone asked me where the water was
i would know what to say.
