Skip to main content

The Waterworks



“None of the other regulars have turned up for the bus today. So there’s just you and me here in the rain.

Well, not quite. There’s still quite a few vehicles on the roads and the odd cyclist wrapped up in polythene. Wonder why all drivers in the rain wear the same expression? More grimly intent on getting who knows where? It’s something I’ve seen since when I was a child living next door to the waterworks. That was a long time ago, but it still feels like yesterday.

Even then, the waterworks had seen better days. There was a tangle of rusting machinery there, moldering and overgrown with weeds, around a well that had run dry long ago. We were forbidden to play there, of course. The body of somebody’s kid was found there and the place was supposed to be haunted. Certainly, everyone avoided it; even the municipality that was supposed to be responsible for it.

I was a sickly child as endless bouts of chicken pox, measles and mumps kept me mostly bedridden. My bedroom window overlooked the moss-covered walls of the waterworks and as there wasn’t much else to do, I used to spin scary stories of dark deeds done in the depths of the well.

I don’t remember all of them now, but they certainly gave me sleepless nights then. Most kids are afraid of the dark and what’s under the bed. But the monster of my nightmares was lurking down in the well. It was a sort of giant toad-like creature, slimy with festering warts. I could swear it was leering horribly up at me in the dark as the wind whipped at the branches of the trees screening the waterworks. The thing was quite a blood-curdling sight, with a huge snake-like tongue flicking through rows of needle-sharp teeth and slobbering lips. And then there was that awful hissing whisper in the wind…

The nightmares used to become worse during the monsoons when the rains really came down. That was until the night of the storm, when the waterworks were struck by lightning. Funny thing; before the storm, no bird would nest in the trees around the waterworks or even fly over it, but afterwards it was simply swarming with vultures. Judging from the smell then, something must have died in there.  Anyway, my sleeplessness stopped after that.

Since then, I’ve come to love the rain. But never mind about that now, here’s our bus at last...”


Comments

Popular posts from this blog

Book Review (Fiction) In The Valley OF Shadows

In The Valley Of Shadows Abhay Narayan Sapru Chlorophyll Books 2017                                             170 Pages The long guerrilla war waged against the British state by the IRA in Northern Ireland spawned a new literary sub-genre, “the troubles thriller” as practiced by authors such as Chris Petit ( The Psalm Killer ), Stephen Leather ( The Chinaman , The Bombmaker )  and Gerald Seymour ( Harry’s Game , Field Of Blood ) . The current conflict in Kashmir, with Pakistan-sponsored terrorist proxies attempting to wrest the state away from India, seems all set to follow suit .  Some of the growing tribe of authors in this nascent sub-genre have backgrounds in journalism covering the valley or have actually served in the Indian Army there. Major Abhay Narayan Sapru, late of the Indian Army Special Forces, belongs to the latter group. That’s what gives In The Valley Of Shadows it’s you-are-there ring of authenticity. The techniques and procedures u

Book Review (Fiction) - Bad Dad

Bad Dad David Walliams Illustrated by Tony Ross HarperCollins Children’s Books 2017                                                   422 Pages           There once used to be a preachy school of sententious Victorian children’s fiction wherein the bad boy was eaten up by a lion for his wickedness; whilst the good boy came into deserved fame and fortune, before being drawn up to heaven by God and his angels. Thankfully, kid lit had come a long way since those awful days. Bad Dad is gleefully anarchic, but no less moralistic, plentiful comic havoc notwithstanding. The “Bad Dad” of the title isn’t really bad; he’s a racing champion crippled after a horrific crash and blackmailed into a life of crime thereafter as the getaway car driver for a cartoon trio of villains.  These three, led by the dwarfish, comically sinister Mr Big, are easily the funniest part of the book. The interplay between his two bickering minions “Fingers” and “Thumbs” constitutes a comedy

Short Story - The Dog Defenders

The Dog Defenders “The dogs have gone to their kin, the sons of dogs,” growled the Pathan scornfully. He had reasons for his displeasure. The prowling pack of pi-dogs that patrolled the main portal of the fort ranged in colour from a dirty jaundice-yellow to the dull khaki of the native regiment that manned it. These animals made surprise attacks and incursions difficult. A long time ago, a kindly cook from a bygone regiment had set out boiled leftover scraps from the cookhouse in a large terracotta plate for the dogs. This individual act of charity had since become a tradition set in stone. In the customary way of the Indian Army, cooks from the regiments that followed had continued the practice. They had even extended it, by adding a crude trough that was periodically filled with the dishwater left after cleaning utensils used in the mess. The dogs, while not allowed within the precincts of the fort, were very grateful for this particular amenity. Especially during