The Plastic Bottle

Last week, my Mom and I noticed hundreds of cardboard cases being unloaded from big truck into our neighbors flat. Curious, we asked him what they were. “I'm selling bottles of water now,” the young entrepreneur explained. “Great. We'll take 12,” my Mom exclaimed. “But that's heavy, no?” she added. “No worries,” he said. “I'll deliver it.” Twelve bottles came up three flights of stairs. We handed him one hundred rupees for the 90 rupee case. As he fished around for the ten rupees change, Mom said, “Forget it, delivery charges.” And thus begins the cycle of many empty plastic bottles. But I will only tell you about one bottle in particular.

Within no time, I began to fret about the garbage that we were creating. Garbage pickup is virtually nonexistent here. However, when it comes to bottles, it is a different story. Yesterday, Mom threw one of our empties over the balcony. I cringed with guilt. “Don't worry, Chris,” she said. “Haven't you seen the women who come along in the morning with their huge nylon sacks to collect plastic and glass to sell to recycling? You watch.”

From three stories up the bottle gleamed on the asphalt road. It laid there all alone, abandoned. Suddenly I heard a noise. A boy was kicking the bottle down the road, running after it, kicking it again, running, kicking, running. At the end of the lane, he tired of the game and left it lying on the side of the road. It laid there, abandoned again, waiting.

A barefooted woman in a sari tied up like a dhoti came along and picked up the bottle. She immediately went to the tap in our compound and filled it up with water. Carrying it home to her reed hut, she began to chop some wood and light a fire with dried moss. She measured out half milk and half water from the bottle and added some tea leaves. Within minutes, she squatted with the man of the house, perhaps her husband, brother or son and together, they drank their hot chai in thick clear glasses.

Before long,the man of the house hurried down the road with the other half of the bottle of water, heading into the jungle for his daily bowel movement. Now I know why he needs the bottle, but in case you don't I will explain. He fastidiously wiped his bum with his left hand and then used the water to carefully wash his fingers, making sure that nothing had been caught under his nails. Hence why you only eat food with your right hand in India.

I hate to tell you but the fated bottle came back to the reed house, too valuable to be tossed. The woman in the worn sari rushed back to the water tap. The next day, however, that precious bottle was needed again. Their son had come down with a fever. She took the empty bottle to a local dukhan and sold it to the shopkeeper. With her one rupee, she bought a pill for her son.

Fortunately for the bottle, it was still undamaged. Its lid still intact. A worker from the dukhan took the bottle to the petrol station and filled it with gas. For half a day, the bottle proudly sat on a table by the road, glistening in the sun. A timely maneuver, because in the late afternoon, a woman with red hair pulled up on her scooter, low on gas. The bottle glugged its amber liquid into the tank. The woman paid for the precious bottle of gas and drove off in a hurry. Meanwhile, the bottle has been thrown onto the ground. Is this the end of the bottle's journey? I doubt it because it has still not been picked up by the woman with the nylon bag.