Senthil the water sommelier

It was a world of difference between Tharani, his village on the banks of the Kaveri river and Dharavi, this slum which had become his adopted home. Senthil had left Tharani as a naïve youngster in search of a brighter future in Mumbai. Expectation, shock, disbelief, disappointment, despair, and finally the unlikely cocktail of hope amidst mistrust. It had been a tumultuous journey. Senthil lived in Dharavi, the largest slum in the world in abject squalor. But he worked at the Taj, a six star establishment offering the highest luxuries to pamper the trivial whims of the super rich. He was a water sommelier at the Maharajah Lounge.

***

As he walked to the metro station, he passed Dhundhe, tending to his buffaloes. Dhundhe had improvised a hole in the ground to catch the rain water that flowed from the neighbourhood, and it was a watering hole and wallowing pit for his buffaloes. And Dhundhe bathed in it too. “Salaam Senthil saab,” Dhundhe was cheerful as usual.

“Salaam bhayya,” Senthil waved back.

***

Senthil stood inconspicuously at the entrance to the Maharajah lounge. The restaurant offered the finest food and drink in the world. The latest craze was water. Yes water. The Maharajah at the Taj oferred a separate gourmet menu for water. To pander to the indulgent lifestyles of these idle souls, powered by their dizzying incomes. Senthil was the “water sommelier”. His job was to serve gourmet water to guests, in small doses, and at the right temperature.
He held the water menu. On offer to stylishly slake the thirst of the super rich was Apollinaris, the Queen of Table Waters from the salubrious Eiffel region in Germany; Highland Spring Natural water from the mist-swathed Ochil Hills of Scotland; Europe’s renowned sodium-free Spa Natural Spring Water; or the famed French Perrier.
Then there was the Elisha-flavoured Mineral Water in green apple, orange, lychee and peach flavours and the sparkling Mulshi Spring Water.

***

Senthil passed Dhundhe’s pond. Suddenly he had a thought. He stopped.

***

Bhagwandas was grossly overweight and shapeless. He waddled in, decked out in his pure silk suit. He had with him several guests. A couple of Europeans, possibly Frenchmen, and a politician in tow, in an ill fitting grey suede suit. Bhagwandas was loud and arrogant.

“Suno, table for fohrr.”

The maitre’d took charge. “Salaam saab. This way please.”

Senthil waited discretely as the men scrutinised the menus.

“Ze vater varaity eez emazing. Even in Franz we kennot faind ziz many taips of ze vater eezily,” one of the Frenchmen gushed.

“India hash the besht of everryththing,” Bhagwandas was so proud of his motherland.

Senthil decided to do it.

“Sir, besides the list on the menu, we have a new variety. Samples have just arrived. It’s the best there is. Would you gentlemen like to try it?”

They were overjoyed. “Yez, of course.”

Senthil returned with the flask, and discretely poured the fluid in measured amounts into their goblets.

Senthil watched as the men took the little shotglasses, delicately passed it under their noses and downed the water in a little gulp.

“That waz really good vater. Vhat a baady. Ze minerals were suttle. Great stuff. Vat is it called?” The Frenchman was obviously a connoisseur.

Senthil bowed, smiling. “Eau de Erumai, sir.”