The fat cats at state electricity boards presided over by the corrupt have drained the state exchequer. Just a few weeks ago, the copious bounty of the south west monsoons filled its reservoirs to brim and a few days earlier heavy unexpected downpours flooded every river bank. For a state that primarily depends on hydro power to spin its dammed turbines, the scenario is pathetic; Inept management, organized mismanagement.

As twilight descends over this small, eight hundred population hamlet up over the western ghat, I wait and wait for the return of electricity. The overhead water cistern has gone empty. I need to operate the motorized pump to get filled, to sustain this house’s water needs for the next twenty four hours. I peer into the abyss that is the sump, a underground tank; it is empty too. The cascade effect: the panchayat isn’t able to deliver water to its denizens as there is no electricity.

 I watch as the near full moon rises, brilliantly yellow against the darkening purple sky. Slowly traversing the inky canopy is a man-made satellite. An ‘orbiter’ launched to keep me connected through signals to the world outside. Telecommunications, television, telephones – a metal can in sky to take care of man’s need to commune and communicate. Odd irony this: Man has walked the surface of the moon and man has put up his own moons in the sky, yet man cannot provide fellow man basic needs. What is development if it hasn’t percolated to the simple man in the dusty villages of India? To me used as I am to some basic comfort levels, this state of affairs appals. Yet, how do ordinary folk cope?

 Come with me as I drop in to the village postmaster’s house. Despite the electricity having returned, I find his house managing with kerosene lamps. 'Why?' I ask, incredulously. 'Well,' he grins, 'we must get used to conserving mustn’t we? We have voluntarily imposed an extra half hour cut, after all we have to pay 30 paise more per unit from this month according to the government new pricing'. 

'How about joining us for meals?' (meals is a common term, substituting for breakfast, lunch, tea or supper in these parts) I nod, and ask to be shown the washroom to scrub my hands. A dingy dark nook with no bulb. No geyser. No tap. On the wooden ledge I see two small brown paper packets – Nanjangud Tooth Powder. A pink gritty granular product that effectively scrubs teeth, the index digit’s pulp makes-do for a toothbrush. A aluminium bucket of water with a mug. I reach for a soap.  

'Lifebouy', a brick-red block of odourless make. I notice one side of the soap is stuck with a plastic sheet.

'Oh, that’s to prevent waste. Why use up two sides when one will suffice? Why light up two ends of one candle?' The postmaster grins again, hiding his embarrassment.

 'So what are Arvind’s future plans eh?' I ask, to ease the awkwardness of the lady of the house.

 A strapping teen, Arvind is of a scholastic bent of mind. He is taking up his IIT entrance this year.

I I T? I am sure he will make it, this boy who sits on the floor to eat, uses his finger to brush his teeth with toothpowder and who slogs over algorithms by lamplight. Whatever the government or one’s lot in life has denied middle class India, it cannot deprive them of ambition and aim. This shy boy will one day fly across the oceans help NASA launch another spacecraft or help Intel patent another process or chip.

 Suddenly, I forget my woes. India cannot be stopped. A down to earth postmaster who values economy, a family that prides in its scholarship, that simpleton who shares meals - this is real Indian middle class – the middle class that directs its anger and rage not against the state or bureaucracy but funnels it into converting dreams….