A little removed from the hustle-bustle of Lajpat Nagar, a panditji would sit atop a high raised little takht in a temple. From morning to evening, his hand would be on a copper lota filled with water. Every now and then a passerby would stop to drink water. Even as the wayfarer made a little bowl with his palm and fingers, the priest would tilt the lota and a little stream of fresh, cold water would fill the man’s improvised bowl.
Separated by many kilometres in Old Delhi’s Charkhewalan, a pandit would do likewise. No paisa expected, no discrimination on the basis of caste or religion.
Not too far on either side of Charkhewalan temple, many Sikh men would fill an aluminium tub with water, add a dash of Rooh Afza and offer it to all; some would be tired businessmen, some weary rickshaw pullers, some kids who call street as their home. But for a few hours at Gurdwara Sisganj, nobody went away thirsty.
On the other side at Jama Masjid Muslim boys match the enthusiasm of their Sikh neighbours. They set up their tub near the staircase of the masjid. Again they would invite one all to have a glass of water or a bowl of half-milk, half-water mixed with Rooh Afza. They would offer relief to all even as sweat lined their sideburns. Again, no paisa charged, all blessings safely deposited in the bank of Hereafter.
That was our Delhi; it survives in trickles here and there. A piao here, a pitcher seller there. Otherwise, the city that respects you for what you have, not what you are, has little time for anybody who needs a glass of water or a little shelter over his head to avoid the afternoon sun. Not just men, even animals and birds suffer.
In the days of yore, it was common to find an earthen bowl with bajra, another filled with water outside most places of worship. The bowls, along with many birds have disappeared, leaving the survivors to take a sip from a leaking tap or dirty their beak in stagnant water. Dogs too suffer. Earlier, often they were found under the table of improvised drinking water stalls, waiting for somebody to throw the half used glass of milk Rooh Afza. Today, the dogs too drink from stagnant pools and drains. The monkeys, often derided, fill their thirst from leaking taps of New Delhi’s Jama Masjid or Rakabganj gurdwaraj.
As for human beings, well the days of the mashk are long since over, the free tub sips are few and far between. So, they stuff their bags with bottles of mineral water or buy it from roadside stalls. There are chuskis and soft rinks and simple water pouches too. There is a difference: earlier water was never sold, not denied to a complete stranger too. Today, you have to pay for every sip, every drop. This change is but a drop in the ocean of the vicissitudes of time. Like the Yamuna, humanity too is reduced to a little stream.
