The day dragged on after my morning research dive, the water crisis details swirling in my head like a storm I couldn't shake. I kept busy—tinkering with the PC, jotting notes in the diary—but the dream's warning gnawed at me. Priya's role in it all felt too close, too real. By evening, I decided to cook—something simple, tomato rasam and rice, to ease her homecoming. The kitchen smells filled the house, a small comfort against the bigger worries. As the door clicked open around 7 PM, I heard her footsteps—tired, but steady. She looked worn out, saree a bit wrinkled, eyes carrying the weight of meetings and reports.
"Hey," I said, wiping my hands on a towel and meeting her in the hall. She managed a smile, but tension lingered in her posture. I pulled her into a quick hug. "Rough day?"
She nodded against my shoulder. "Long meetings—everyone talking 'positive updates,' but it feels like bandaids on a flood. Anyway, smells good in here."
I led her to the dining table, serving up plates. "Figured you'd need fuel. Sit, eat." We settled in, the steam rising from the rasam like a peace offering. As she took her first bite, I kept it light at first—asking about her team, the office vibe. Then, casually, I slipped it in. "Oh, had a weird call from Ravi today—remember my old college mate in Pallavaram?"
Priya paused, spoon halfway to her mouth. "Ravi? The one who always talked about starting a startup? What'd he say?"
I leaned back, keeping my tone easy, like it was just gossip. "Yeah, him. He's complaining about the water stuff. Says his street gets a tanker maybe twice a week if they're lucky, but he's seeing this constant stream of private ones rolling through the back lanes near that vacant plot behind his apartment. Joked it looked like an assembly line—or a 'water car wash,' as he put it. Weird, right? While everyone's taps are dry."
She set her spoon down, her eyes sharpening—the bureaucrat kicking in. It was subtle, but I saw the wheels turning, that anecdote clashing with whatever "equitable distribution" reports she'd seen. "Which area exactly? Did he mention timings or anything?"
I shrugged, drawing from my research but framing it as secondhand. "Around Keelkattalai side, I think. Evenings mostly, after dark. He was half-laughing, half-mad—said it felt like someone was playing favorites." I kept eating, not pushing, letting her probe if she wanted.
Priya nodded slowly, her fork tracing patterns in the rice. "Hmm. Doesn't match what I'm hearing in updates. Thanks for mentioning it—might follow up." She changed the subject after that, talking about a funny staff mix-up, but I could tell it stuck with her. We finished dinner, chatting lightly, the casual reveal planted like a seed.
Later that night, sleep evaded me again—the dream's echoes too fresh. Priya tossed beside me, her breathing uneven. Around midnight, she sat up, rubbing her eyes. "Can't sleep," she muttered. "Mind if I borrow your laptop? Mine's tied to the office network... want to check some things quietly."
"Sure," I said, propping on an elbow. "In the office room. You okay?"
She kissed my cheek quickly. "Just thinking. Be back soon." She slipped out, the door clicking softly.
From bed, I heard her in the next room—the laptop whirring to life, keys tapping. Curiosity tugged, but I gave her space. She needed this— a private window to dig without eyes on her. On the laptop, she started with public grievance portals—cross-checking against her internal dashboards. The mismatch hit hard: floods of complaints from South Chennai on civic sites, raw and desperate. Dry taps, empty borewells, accusations of favoritism. But her office "Resolved Issues" showed most ticked off as "addressed" or "referred." Lies by omission, numbers fudged to paint progress.
Deeper: tanker GPS logs. Using her credentials, she pulled the live feed for government fleets—sporadic dots on the map. Then, a crowdsourced "Tanker Watch" app online, citizen reports mapping private movements. The contrast glared: massive clusters in southern zones her logs called "low activity." Tankers swarming like ants, far from official routes.
Old geology reports next—a buried PDF from state archives. Aquifer maps unfolded: layered reserves under South Chennai marked "long-term." The scale sank in—deep bores pillaging what should last decades. Coordinated fraud, not negligence. Her face in the laptop's blue glow hardened, fury cold and calculated. The setup was clear: she was the fall guy for a system rotten from within.
She closed the laptop quietly, slipping back to bed. "Find what you needed?" I whispered.
"Yeah," she said, voice steady but edged. "More than I expected." She curled against me, but sleep came slow for both. The seed had taken root.