The Case of the Missing Gas Canister

When I first arrived in Chennai, I had two full gas canisters. These gas canisters supply fuel for our cooking stove and they live in a little cage right outside of my kitchen door. On this cage, there is a padlock to which I have the only key. These first two canisters are supplied by the consulate, sort of as welcome gas, I suppose. All future gas canisters must be purchased from the gas company directly. Fine.

One month later, right on schedule, the first canister runs out of gas and my stove no longer works. Following the instructions that I had been given and with a huge amount of help from Sival and Shanti, I changed the hose over to the second canister and rapidly re-lit the pilot lights. Gas begins to flow immediately, according to rumor, and if you do not light the pilots right away your house will fill up with gas and explode. It was quite a scene, let me tell you. Me and Sival and Shanti squatting in a huddle around the broiler, fearfully sticking a lit incense stick into the dark recesses, quite afraid that we were soon to perish in a fireball. Sival got so scared that he ran out the back door. I wish I had a picture.

At this point, we all become aware of the little fact that my padlock has rusted through and is no longer functional. I am not too worried about it and just sort of squish it back together. I mean, come on. Really. It's not a big deal. I take full responsibility for the remainder of this tale.

Last Friday, just after regular work hours, the stove went out again. I go to check out the canisters to find that, alas, I now only have one and it is empty. What to do? I, of course, very erroneously call the consulate. The fact that I am supposed to call the gas company has, unfortunately, escaped me. The nice lady at the consulate, rather than simply tell me to call the gas company, sets about making arrangements to get a new canister for me. It is supposed, by me, that she considered it an emergency because it was late on Friday and thought that I was calling her on purpose rather than simply making a mistake. Communication can be a real bitch in Chennai.

I have one empty gas canister, a fake lock on my gas canister cage, and have called the wrong people about it. Boy am I making a mess of things.

Some time when Chris and I were away, somebody came from somewhere and replaced my one empty gas canister with one full gas canister. When this occurred and who this gas canister fairy was is all still quite a mystery.

I hook the new canister up, light the pilot lights and am quite content. The fact that I only have one canister is really not of too much importance. Or so I thought. I had no idea what a cardinal sin it is to have only one gas canister in Chennai.

Next day, a gas walla arrives with a new canister. I have not called him and have no idea where he came from. But hell, for rs 300, I'll take one. But alas, there is no empty one to take away. Now the gas wallas are individual businessmen who are contracted by the gas company to make deliveries and retrieve empty canisters. It is not possible, it turns out, to get a full one without giving up an empty one. Impossible. Utterly. And, if you will recall, I have no empty canister. This little bit of information quickly became the concern of everyone in my neighborhood. In my driveway “discussing” this conundrum were myself, Shanti, Sival, Rajendran, the gas walla, my neighbor Lola, a maintenance guy from the consulate who was working on something, and two strangers who came from lord knows where the hell. Between us, we accomplished exactly nothing.

At this juncture, however, I did learn an important piece of information from Lola. Some Saturdays ago, it seems, she ordered gas. The gas walla came with two full canisters for her and took away her two empty ones. With him he also, out of the kindness of his heart, took the empty one from me as well. She saw him do it and even discussed it with him, apparently. And she will swear to it in court. At least that little mystery is solved, though the logic behind it remains as opaque as ever.

My gas walla goes away, dejectedly, and the party in the driveway disperses. I have a number of barely intelligible conversations about this situation with various folks in the consulate and we, after much tribulation, decide that an empty gas canister will be brought to my home so that I can then trade it in for one new one, thereby providing me with the two full gas canisters that I so need in order to be a Proper Member of the Foreign Service Community. Fine.

Nobody ever shows up, of course, with this prop, and the gas walla arrives again with my full canister. Again, he was not summoned by me but by some nefarious person who is clearly attempting to thwart my peace and quiet. Our little pow-wow begins anew, with the same cast of characters and the helpful addition of Raju, joining us by cell phone. Raju is the Main Man of the maintenance staff and he can fix anything. Anything except this, apparently. After the EXACT same conversation that had occurred on the previous day was repeated, in it's entirety, I finally broke down. I had my first Indian Fit. It went something like:

“You, go away and do not come back."
“You, go back to work.”
“You, man. Who in the hell are you, anyway?”
“The next person who says the words 'gas canister' is going to get socked in the nose.”
“Never ever utter the words 'gas canister' in my presence again.”
“This conversation is over.”

I still have only one gas canister and I like it that way.

They did give me a new padlock.