Chronic Gas (Friday Night)

As night began to close out our first full day in India, we were doing the thing that all people do when they move into a new place without any stuff to occupy their time – we fiddled about with everything in the apartment. We opened drawers and closets; we walked out onto each terrace; we opened the refrigerator; and finally we turned on the stove …. er, well, attempted to turn on the stove.


I turned the knobs, but there was no sound, no click and definitely no smell of gas. Damn! Another freak’n problem. I got in the lift and went down to the carpark area where I typically find Gupta G, the building’s makeshift superintendant, sitting around with a group of workers doing a whole lot of nothing. I mimicked to him (as he does not speak English) that I had an issue and off we went upstairs.


I led him over to the stove, turned the knob and when nothing happened, he gave me the head wiggle of Indian acknowledgement. We had an understanding. He turned all the knobs sniffed each burner and buggered off down stairs. A few minutes later, he returned with Rham, the landlords “Man Friday.” Rham turned each knob and sniffed each burner. He did not, though, run away, but reached over and flipped a switch on the wall. The knobs now made the expected click, but no flame. Rham sniffed again and fled to the basement.


Let me explain how the gas works in this flat. There is no centrally provided gas in Delhi due to the seismic zone and the odd tendency of gas lines to explode during earthquakes. In most apartments, you rent a gas cylinder, haul the cylinder to your flat, store it under your stove and hook it directly into the stove itself. Very inconvenient. In our apartment, the gas cylinders are cleverly stored in the parking area and individual lines are run from your respective cylinder to all the gas needs in your flat. Very clever and very convenient.


So, Rham went down stairs to turn on the gas. He appeared a few minutes later, turned the knob, the click sounded and the wonderful sight of the blue flame appeared around the burner. All was well!


About an hour later, I was in the kitchen reading up on the technical wonder we now call our oven and honing my skills on the creation of cheesy bread. A few minutes into my research, Olga came in and said she smelled gas. I was standing directly next to the stove and smelled nothing, so I dismissed it as the wonderful Delhi aroma seeping into to our new house. About 10 minutes later, we went into the drawing room to watch TV and the smell was much more pungent. It was gas and a great deal of it. Hum? Why was there gas in the drawing room, but not the kitchen?


We sniffed gingerly around the room looking the source, but could find nothing. It made no sense. We then opened the door to the office and were slapped in the face with a fully saturated room full of the noxious compound. The overwhelming smell of a highly explosive gas in my apartment triggered my memory that the landlord had installed a gas fitting in the office for a heater. Apparently, the installers forgot the fine art of capping the fitting. When Ram turned on the gas, he inadvertently created our own personal gas chamber. I scrambled to find Ram, turn off the gas and ventilate the apartment. I opened all the windows and doors, but it was a slow exchange with the stale Delhi air outside.


Eventually, after several hours, the flat finally vented itself and the apartment was soon safe again for human habitation. All that was left was to wait for the gasman to cap the fitting in the morning and all would be restored to normal.


Hey, what’s a foreign relocation without a good gassing and a brush with death!