Sorry about the silence. Here's why:
You know that septic tank story? The one where the garden gets ruined in the interests of our health and general well-being? Well, the pit was dug. Three feet down, there was clay. Which seeped and oozed and behaved like primordial slime (do I mean primordial?).
The man in charge spends ten days - count 'em - holding his head in his hands staring at the pit and thinking deep thoughts. In the meanwhile the slime continues to ooze with vigour. We protest. The man in charge tells us he's working as fast as he can (read: to met with one galvanised iron bucket between them, emptying out the pit).
In the meanwhile, I go to Bombay and return, only to find overcast skies. Any desire I may have had to sing Cloudy! Cla-ha-how-dy! deserted me rapidly. There was also the chicken pox, you see.
Wednesday afternoon, small portions of the it started embracing the slime below. One sewage pipe was exposed and we pleaded and ranted at the man in charge. That night, after a mild drizzle, the side wall of the pit collapsed; the sewage pipe burst; the whole thing went down, taking the telephone line with it. (Yes, I'm typing this from a cyber cafe -the things I will do for this blog are unbelievable. This is also the time to admit that I feel like several limbs have been cut off and all caffeine and other mild substances I abuse have been withdrawn from me.)
All night, the pit filled with the sewage of th entire road.
The next morning was emergency. We've dealt with that. But all Thursday night bits of the pit, trees and plants continued to fall. The pit inched closer to the house. Yesterday we decided to abandon pit and close it up. I know, I know. We were fools, what can I say. Other solutions will be found but there's no phone or any possibility of it until the end of the month almost, so though I will blog, it won't be about Part Three of the Bombay Diaries, or about Kari, whch I wanted to review.
So perhaps I will tell the haircut story after all.