It’s that time of the year when the summer heat drains you of energy so much that all you can do is pray for the rains.
In the eastern part of the country, the first rains are preceded by kalbaisakhis, which are typically evening storms that end in rain. Besides deciding the fate of mangoes (how many of them will remain on trees), these storms often throw household budgets of the less privileged completely out of gear. Fallen walls and blown off roofs only add to their desperation.
For those of us who do not have to worry about whether our walls will remain around us, kalbaisakhis are often a test of mettle of another kind. Overhead power lines ensure that the slightest storm plays havoc with the supply.
But, what is far more worrying is a phenomenon I encountered for the first time when I moved to Santiniketan: Voltage fluctuations. So, your lights can suddenly dim to make your house look like a deep dungeon or suddenly brighten to make you feel you are under arc lights that you always dreamt of!
However, when you are in the throes of a fluctuating voltage situation, tough decisions need to be taken: Which lights can be kept on so that the damage of bursting bulbs can be limited to ordinary bulbs without damaging the expensive CFL ones; should the meat, the milk, the curd be left to rot by turning off the fridge or will the money spent on the voltage stabiliser keep the compressor from blowing?
Of course, those entrusted with the distribution of electricity are extremely efficient in handling complaints. They either helpfully suggest that all electric gadgets should be turned off at the time of voltage fluctuations or promise to look into the matter in the morning if it happens late evening.
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In the morning, your ears are strained to catch the sound of the electricity department’s vehicle coming to mend the offending wire or the transformer. As the operation of maintenance is often carried out by contract labour, this means the driver is the chief mechanic as well. So, you suddenly see the driver get off, climb the transformer pole and ask for colleagues (cleaner?) to throw him his tools. This mending sometimes lasts for hours and sometimes for days. It’s all destiny!
But thanks to Rabindranath Tagore, Santiniketan is a privileged town. When I speak to those who come from villages only five kilometres away, I know that not having electricity (because of inadequate supply of wires or even transformer parts) for weeks is the norm in the villages of West Bengal.
But, in an attempt to make up in form what it lacks in substance, the West Bengal State Electricity Board has recently initiated a complaints cell in Burdwan (the nearest large town). So, all this while, we had to call the local supply office or cycle over (when they chose to keep their phones off the hook) in case we had an electrical emergency. Now, we could just call a toll-free number and register our complaints by quoting our consumer IDs, no less.
We had been thinking that a dedicated complaints registration cell would be more efficient till we realised that the consumer ID stuff was just for the effect; you still had to give them the address and explain to someone sitting in Burdwan the nearest landmark to your house in Santiniketan.
Maybe the authorities too were aware that all was not right. Recently, when we called the complaints cell, we heard the recorded message: “Aap kataar me hain, kripaya nirikhshan karen.” Not believing our ears, we heard it over and over again. Hindi, not being the strongest suit in the average Bengali’s lingual abilities, we were breaking up laughing. But then, was it a plaintive cry for help? Please come and examine how bad things are.