If children’s folklore has the bogey man, a mythical monster used to frighten them into good behaviour, in real life, we adults have the Gas Man, a living terror who intimidates us into our best behaviour.
Ask any Indian woman, and she’ll agree that the gas delivery agent is the most-awaited, most sought-after and also the most intimidating person in her life.
Even before the LPG crisis it was so, now I daresay it is even more so!
In my world, there are mainly two types of gas – the more noticeable stomach-bloating type experienced especially after consuming too much chole-bhature the previous night and the other is the chulha-burning type essential for cooking that chole. In our house, when our stove shows signs that it has reached the last dregs of LPG, then it’s a major crisis! When the flame splutters and dims, I instantly go into action mode. I tap the cylinder. I wobble it on its base. In response, the flame above gives out one last enthusiastic burst and then dies out completely; and the cooker stops mid-whistle like a road Romeo caught by his throat by the vigilant police.
I yell to the husband, Oi, gas is over; and the fun kind of begins. He hitches up his lungi and ties it at his waist, I hitch up my saree and tie the pallu around … we’re ready to go into battle.
While the empty cylinder is fairly easy to handle, it’s the new one which poses a challenge. Unboxing a new cylinder is a test which every young couple about to embark on a lifetime together should be asked to demonstrate right at the pre-marital discussions. It’s a life skill the lack of which may well lead to separation and even divorce, I fear.
Effort, energy and everything else in between is needed to pull out that little taut string sealing the lid of the cylinder – too less and nothing happens, too much and the string snaps and we rock back on our bottoms. If all goes well and I am able to get the gas flowing again, I’m so thrilled I whistle louder than my cooker.
We have now reached level two of the game – booking a fresh cylinder!
An automated voice informs me that a refill will be on its way in 2 or 3 days (before the LPG crisis, mind) and those couple of days, believe me, are the longest days of our lives. We reschedule our work, we refuse social invitations, we stay home lest we miss the delivery.
On day 3, when I step out for a few minutes for essential groceries, I get that all-important call with an arrogant voice telling me delivery today, keep the money ready! I panic. I yell to the grocer to keep the change, rush back home and sit by the front door, clutching the money in my hands. For, the gas man is one man who cannot be kept waiting, even if force majeure is invoked!
I hear him before I see him – the roar of his van in the next street, the clang of the cylinder as it is flung into the back of the vehicle and I am all charged up. It’s our turn next, for sure. However, it’s a false alarm – the van trundles off into the horizon, and I subside back.
Then I need to take a quick and urgent pee break, but even before I’ve started the job, I hear the van again, and I run out with half-tied pajama nada to see the van now at our gate. And at that moment – the swarthy, able-bodied, toil-worn gas delivery man, is the most important person on earth for us.
The gas man is to us, what Mahendra Bahubali is to the Mahishmati Samrajyam. When he lifts the heavy cylinder as casually as if it were a feather-light Avantika, hauls it over one shoulder, all rippling muscles and 8-pack abs, and puts his right foot over our threshold, I almost swoon with contentment.
All is well. The chulha will burn again in the Acharya Samrajyam!
Thanks to our Bahubali!
Disclaimer
Views expressed above are the author’s own.
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