The Taste(s) of Water

I never realized that water has a particular taste, or, for that matter, that it has any taste at all. Isn't it supposed to merely perform a function? Slake thirst? 

But as it turns out, I am quite off the mark. 

Yes, water does have a taste, as experts and wise men will have us believe. Taste picked up from running over rocks, bouncing off precipices, capturing a bit of the blue, red and pink of a tumultuous sky. A bit of the soil maybe, diluted just so and distilled out again, garnished with pebbles, rocks and boulders, each adding their own weight to a story that started out with drop.

So, what then is water's story? Or its taste if you like? Is it sweet, tarty, tangy, sharp, hot, or is it a taste so different that it escapes definition.

Dahiwadi

In Dahiwadi, where my mother comes from, water is drawn from a well. It does not come gushing out of taps and cisterns at fixed hours everyday to the groans of sullen housewives and inquisitive neighbours. Its a long drawn process, the act of getting water. 

Water pots must be scrubbed clean with a bit of ash and tamarind. When the brass starts sparkling like gold, women will balance a pot or two on their head and in the crook of their arm and make their way gingerly to the bottom of the well, minding the occasional thorn and pebble on the way. They will clear off the water near the stairs of the well with their hands and immerse the shiny brass pots and fill them to the brim making sure not to step inside the water for fear of contaminating it with feet that have trodden over dusty roads, land mined with an occasional thorn or pebble. 

They return home with water splashing at their waist and over their heads, the cool water mixing with their tarty sweat. Pouring the water into huge earthen pots placed outside the house, they sit down for a moment and bring down the coil of cloth, placed on their head to balance the pot, wipe off the sweat and coiling it back again, return to the 'normal' task of replenishing the house's waters reserves. 

The water in Dahiwadi is exceptionally sweet and cool and quenches your thirst almost instantly. It also fills you up with an after taste that makes you want to run in the fields and bury yourself in the thick, black soil, be a part of it so that you too may be washed over by the next rains and parts of you may emerge at a well -- sweet and refreshing.

Pune

The water in Pune is not as sweet as in Dahiwadi. It has a bit more tang in it. It's not the mother's place after all. All the tartiness of saasar (in laws' place) has dissolved into it. Varasgaon, a village in the foothills of Sinhagad, a fort in Pune's vicinity, is the catchment area for Pune's water supply. So when it rains in Varasgaon, all of Pune rejoices. The water over the next year is assured and they can safely go on to wash their linen, socks and underwear under a running stream of triply filtered water that is safe to drink and will ensure that their progeny will bounce with health, vigour and of course mental agility. A person without mental agility and 'good education' is after all lost in Pune. As a young girl I would dutifully fill my water bottle for school every morning seconds before the rickshaw arrived to whisk me off to that dread-filled enclosure. Sipping on the once-cool water I would count seconds to 3:30 P.M. when I could finally leave the school and escape (in my mind's eye) into an unseen fold of Sinhagad. Feel the first shower on my face and hear the sound of the water as it hastily flows way over cliff and rocks to an eager village below. I could imagine, momentarily perhaps, the dark clouds that gathered over Sinhagad, conferred whether lightning should strike the right or left shoulder of the fort and the matter being left undecided burst forth as lightning struck an unseen corner. Water gushing down in rapid torrents, washing away debris, earth, leaves and trees, a bit of memory of lovers who once trekked up Sinhagad. Washed it all away into the catchment area, memories, soil, branch and leaf, ready to be filtered and gushed out through taps for minds eager for wisdom.

Bonn

The water in Bonn is kalk laden. Its hard to digest, makes you burp and leaves unsightly white rings on everything it touches. Erodes your pots and pans much before their time and keeps you wondering why tea tastes funny in spite of the copious ginger and lemon grass you have added. It also makes you lose hair and if you are not careful enough will leave your skin with rough, dry patches. An astute and continual investment in good hair products and 'oil replinishing' bath products is hence a pre-requisite to living in this city. Like Pune, water in Bonn comes gushing out of stainless steel faucets and unlike the former, it flows uninterrupted through the day, for twelve months a year. In winters you also have the option of switching to warm water merely by turning the faucet handle to the other side - voila! washing glasses was never this easy. The water is Bonn quenches your thirst, one glass and you are completely hydrated. When it rains in Bonn the water makes huge puddles, discomforting the neatly dressed people as they go minding the mess. Coffee brown puddles in concrete roads are hardly a pretty picture after all. Coffee brown puddles with no smell at all. The soil in Bonn is never exhausted enough, it never calls out to the rains in desperation. The rain is more routine than relief. Water and earth don't meet here in a frenzied ecstasy of departed lovers, their marriage has a pretty face and a long association. Unless you don't concern yourself with it you will never realize, but the soil never smells sweet after it rains.