The Divide at Gate No. 4

“The heatwave was not just weather; it was violence.

At 2:00 PM, Bangalore hallucinated. The dashboard thermometer blinked 49°C. Heat rippled above the asphalt, turning distant buildings into wavering ghosts. Trees along the Outer Ring Road stood grey and brittle, their leaves lacquered with dust and diesel.

Shankar wrestled the heavy gears of the Tata tanker, the metal lever burning his palm. Behind him sloshed twelve thousand liters of groundwater—more valuable than gold.

Three months earlier, the municipal pipes had released their final dying hiss. Since then, water was no longer a right. It was currency. And Shankar was driving a moving vault.

He turned toward Azure Heights.

The complex rose like an insult—three towers of blue glass, forty floors high, encircled by concrete walls crowned with electric fencing. Inside, mist-cooled lobbies and manicured lawns promised a “European micro-climate.” Diesel generators hummed softly, maintaining an artificial eighteen degrees.

Outside the gates lay reality.

The Basti.

A choking sprawl of tin roofs and blue tarpaulin, where maids, drivers, guards, and nannies lived. They cleaned the towers’ bathrooms but defecated in open drains. They washed luxury cars but hadn’t bathed in days.

The Basti had not seen a government tanker in nine days.

As Shankar slowed near Gate No. 4, the air thickened with sewage and despair.

“Gate pass?” the guard asked. Cameras watched. Rules mattered here.

“Tower B. Penthouse. Mr. Mehra,” Shankar replied.

He lifted his plastic bottle—empty. His tongue felt like leather.

As the gates began to open, a sound rose from the slum. A murmur. Then a groan.

A woman broke free. Barefoot. Skeletal. An orange plastic pot in her hands.

“Bhaiya! Ruko!” she screamed, running onto the burning road.

Shankar slammed the brakes. Water thundered inside the tank.

“One bucket!” she cried, striking the tire. “My child hasn’t urinated in two days. Please.”

Shankar recognized her. Lakshmi. Dishwasher in C-Wing.

“Move back!” the guard shouted, raising his baton. “Private property!”

“Just a mug!” “Just a bottle!”

Bodies surged forward—not attacking, pleading. Hands touched the tanker as if it were a god.

Shankar revved the engine. “Move! I’ll crush you!”

He didn’t want to. He lived in a slum too. But Mr. Mehra had paid four times the rate. Miss the delivery, and the water mafia would break his legs—or cut his family’s supply.

The whistle shrieked uselessly. The automatic gates jammed against human weight.

Forty floors above, Mr. Mehra frowned from his balcony, scotch in hand.

“Why is the tanker stuck?” he said into his earpiece. “My brunch guests are coming. The infinity pool needs topping up.”

The words crackled through a walkie-talkie below.

“Let the truck in. The pool is waiting.”

“Pool?” Lakshmi screamed, staring at the glass tower.

Something snapped.

A stone shattered Shankar’s mirror.

“Open the valve!” a boy yelled, climbing the tanker ladder, ribs visible under sun-burnt skin.

Shankar was dragged from the cab and thrown into the dust. No one hit him. He was irrelevant.

Batons swung. Bones cracked. But four guards could not stop two hundred people who believed they were dying.

Inside the lobby, residents filmed through bulletproof glass.

#Riot #Unsafe #PolicePlease

The boy wrenched the rusted valve.

Metal screamed.

Water exploded.

A pressurized jet slammed into the road. People threw themselves onto the asphalt, mouths open. Mothers-soaked saris in filthy runoff and squeezed drops into babies’ mouths. Men fought, clawed, screamed.

“Drink! Drink!”

From above, Mr. Mehra watched his pool pour onto the street.

“Animals,” he muttered, closing the soundproof door.

Sirens wailed.

Shankar lay gasping, ribs aching. He saw Lakshmi trampled in the chaos. She did not rise. Her orange pot rolled away, empty.

Water mixed with dust, oil, sewage, blood.

Ten minutes later, the tanker was dry.

Most of the twelve thousand liters had drained into the open sewer.

Police arrived. Tear gas popped. White smoke merged with steam. The crowd scattered, clutching muddy bottles.

Silence returned.

Shankar limped upright. The water stains were already evaporating, dark shadows on scorched earth.

Lights flickered on in Azure Heights. Generators purred.

They would order another tanker tomorrow. From another village. Another dry well.

Lakshmi lay behind yellow tape. Traffic flowed around her body.

Shankar understood then.

The war was already here. Not between nations. But between those with gates—and those without.

His phone buzzed.

Order #402. Block D. Car wash. Urgent.

He started the engine and drove on, leaving behind the stain of a hope that had already dried.”

Review: The author has written a thought-provoking story about the impending water crisis. The author clearly highlights the divide between the haves and have nots when they are confronted with a water problem. The protagonist in this story is not portrayed as a larger-than-life hero for the less fortunate people. But as a common man forced to obey the orders of the water mafia. Usage of concise words in sentences to narrate the story was excellent. The reason that led to the riot was described in a precise manner.