It is the middle of July. At 5:00 am in Torturpuram, India, Sripathi Rao receives a phone call while out on the balcony of Big House. He is busy and doesn’t answer, nor does anyone else in the house. He yells for his son, Arun, to get the phone and curses the boy’s indolence. It might be their daughter, Maya, calling, though it would be unusual for her to call on water day. Sripathi goes back to writing a letter to the editor of The Hindu, something he enjoys doing, though secretively. He always signs his letters with a pseudonym, Pro Bono Publico. From his perch on the balcony, he can look down at Brahmin street and the neighborhood. His family is Brahmin, but not everyone else living on the street is. That stopped being so a long time ago.

Sripathi‘s wife, Nirmala, brings him coffee. They speak with one another, but the tone is not loving. Sripathi is very sarcastic. They argue a bit about answering the phone and duties needing done for water collection. The phone rings again and Sripathi goes to answer it.