Sohini Basak has poems and short stories in The Lighthouse Journal, Paris Lit Up, Ambit, Litro, The Ofi Press, Helter Skelter, and elsewhere. She tweets sporadically @Sohini_Basak.
Somebody sweeps off ground glass to the side of the newly-pitched road, this is what wakes me up. One in the morning and no one is sweeping our newly-pitched streets, there is no ground glass. The sky is fluctuating, not the streetlights. I go back to sleep. I wake up again, this time at seven and like every other morning, expect the taps to run out of water. It will happen, one of these days, I will go to the bathroom and brush my teeth only to find out that there is no water to rinse out the disgustingly mint foam. As I stand in front of the bathroom door, the dread of the day (for this might just be the day we run out of water) passes on from the tips of my fingers to the rickety steel latch and makes it cold. I stand still and strain my ears for other signs. Yes, there is something odd about the usual morning din in the neighbourhood, it is not very pronounced. Last night’s fluctuating sky seeps into my drowsiness, and I imagine walking into the kitchen to see my wife standing in front of the stove looking worried. “There is no water, I’m boiling cold water from the fridge for tea,” I imagine her saying, to which I reply what else did you expect, Ma Ganga to do rounds in our neighbourhood, pouring out water from a little plastic bucket?