The taste of water—tap water, to be more precise—was the first thing that made me wonder if I have become a snob or just ‘first world’
When my partner first pointed at the poor quality of tap water at a B&B in Padua, I thought he was being a snob; but that was until I had a sip myself. Representation pic
When I first visited Italy and lived at the residency in Eau & Gaz, South Tyrol, I enjoyed being sarcastic when European friends complained about anything. That’s such a ‘first world problem’, I often said, smugly, my delivery always accompanied by laughter. I wanted them to know that while I empathised with whatever they were dealing with, it was important that they understood that their issue was one that was associated with privilege. It was my way of extending my politics to cocktail hour. Unfortunately, a few months ago, when I was in Padua, I had a moment of slight horror as I drank a bottle of tap water and felt somewhat repelled by its taste. Was I a water snob or had I become ‘first world’?
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If you were to ask me what constitutes the greatest luxury living in Europe, I wouldn’t bat an eyelid. I would tell you instantly it’s the ability to drink water out of a tap. It doesn’t end there. Where I live, we can drink out of fountains, an indescribable pleasure, especially after an uphill climb. I’d never thought about the taste of water until living here long-term. In my past, it was usually only when I travelled to Goa from Mumbai that I contemplated the difference in flavour. We often muse that whatever we cook in Goa is so much more delicious because the water was more wholesome. But I never dwelled on it.
My father had installed a filtration system in our apartment in Kurla that involved a ceramic ‘candle’ that we had to periodically clean. Some years ago, we invested money and bought an RO filter for our flat in Mumbai. This was an update from the previous system that involved filling a vessel with filtered water, then boiling it, letting it cool, and finally storing it in bottles so it could chill in the fridge. It was a lengthy process. When I moved to Delhi, I couldn’t afford to buy an RO filter, so I relied, even until I left, on 20-litre Bisleri jars. When I spent the day outdoors, I usually carried my own bottle so I wouldn’t add to the plastic trash. It was always inconceivable to imagine drinking water directly out of a tap.
That was until I first visited Europe in 2012. While, on one hand, I frequently resented having to pay a euro to pee in a public loo, I loved that I could easily refill my bottle at any museum bathroom. I remember once reading someone’s review of a water bar and was initially convinced it was satire. I was shocked to learn such a concept indeed existed. At the time I remember feeling sure that going to a water bar represented the pinnacle of luxury. Now, as a seasoned immigrant living in the Alps, I really believe the height of privilege is the ability to freely drink mountain water. The temperature is always perfect. It is cool and soothing to the tongue, refreshing when splashed on the face. I realised how unique the water was when I spent more time in Venice, three hours south from where I live. Padua is on the way to Venice. When we arrived at our B&B in August, our bottles were empty. We were thirsty. My partner immediately filled them in the bathroom. I must have easily gulped at least two litres. I was on a one-track mission to quench my thirst. So, when my partner remarked about the poor quality, I thought he was being a snob. Until later that evening, when I had brushed my teeth and had a totally neutral palette. I tasted the water again and found it oddly chlorinated and tepid. I even winced with each sip.
Nishant Shah, an academic I follow on Facebook and greatly admire, wrote a long post on Facebook explaining his decision to leave the Netherlands and return to India. He felt impelled to find ways of “being closer, on-the-ground, sharing the risks and the lived reality” of the communities he has been working with. The following sentence really stood out to me for its grace: “My feminist politics and intellectual ethics demand that I find ways of putting my body in the same conditions of risk and challenge that these distributed communities of change live through.” When I recently read about @queerbrownvegan’s post on environmental justice, I thought about how, through the Alpine winter, I can still breathe freely, unlike the last few years in Delhi when we were forced to wear masks to protect our lungs from the pollution. When many parts of Europe experienced a heat wave this summer, I told friends here that I had lived through many Delhi summers when it was regularly 45 degrees.
They were horrified.
I often have flashbacks to when I lived in JNU’s Tapti Hostel and had to subsist on one bucket of water a day and share a bathroom with at least 20 or 30 others. It makes me think about this void I have fallen into, between the first world and the third. One in which many things feel like luxuries, and in which I seem to have evolved taste (become a snob). I am that immigrant that is forced to buy a banana imported from Ecuador while fantasising about the amazing varieties back home in Goa. I am also the tax-paying immigrant with access to free water and free healthcare. I don’t know if, like Nishant, I will ever have the grace to leave all this behind and put my body, once again, in an atmosphere of risk and challenge.
Deliberating on the life and times of Everywoman, Rosalyn D’Mello is a reputable art critic and the author of A Handbook For My Lover. She tweets @RosaParx
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The views expressed in this column are the individual’s and don’t represent those of the paper.
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