LPG Crisis: Now The Queue Waits For Fire

I remember the 90s. We watched the Gulf War on television and saw Babri fall, and there were lines then. After all these years, lines still exist in my glorious nation state. How else would I prove my citizenship if not by standing in line for basic necessities. There were good lines too, waiting for the latest Shah Rukh Khan release in Calcutta. In reality, we Indians live and die in waiting, at the risk of a bad joke, for God(ot).

Outside the LPG distribution center in Sector 9, the line begins at the shutter and slowly dissolves into the street like a reluctant procession. Steel cylinders stand beside their owners like quiet companions. Some are empty, some half full, some have been dragged here on scooters and rickshaws, others rolled along the pavement like reluctant wheels.

It is only 8:15 in the morning, but the line already has a life of its own. Shared memories surface about who has struggled more in queues in the past. In India, we line up for survival and we queue for the new Apple product.

There is a man who has brought two empty cylinders and an elaborate explanation. There is an elderly woman who keeps her place by sitting on the cylinder itself like a throne of necessity. There is a delivery boy who arrived at dawn but has already been bypassed by three men who had one question, kab ayega, apna time.

Someone says the truck will come at ten. Others say it came yesterday and vanished within minutes, even though they swear they saw the red flash of cylinders. Our lives here often feel like an exercise in Schrödingering. The truck both exists and does not.

The speculation does not produce laughter.

The tea stall opposite the agency has turned into a small Parliament. The war, it seems, has reached the kitchen. International prices. Shipping disruptions. Strategic reserves. Pipeline politics. A murder of crows looks down upon its providers.

Someone mentions foreign policy. An eager young man explains how international law will resolve these crises. There is a Bengali phrase for this kind of optimism, sonar pathor bati. The reader may interpret it.

India, he says, has mastered a curious diplomatic posture in recent years. Not quite neutrality, not quite opposition, not quite alignment. Something softer. A polite obedience dressed up as strategic patience.

“Earlier we were non-aligned,” Uncle Ji says. “Now we are carefully aligned. Vishwaguru.”

Aligned with whom is not entirely clear, though television debates have lately begun mentioning Washington with renewed enthusiasm. The Trump administration, according to prime-time experts, prefers clarity in friendships. Allies are expected to behave like that friend who gives in to peer pressure, from smoking to genocide.

Energy markets are not sentimental. Ships follow contracts, straits, and capital.

A man at the tea stall summarises it simply.

“The war is there,” he says, pointing vaguely westward. “The decisions are there.”

He gestures in another direction.

“And the queue,” he concludes, looking down the street, “is here.”

The queue accepts this geopolitical arrangement quietly.

What everyone remembers clearly is the sound of the stove when the gas runs out. That final splutter. The small, immediate announcement of hunger. The middle class remains largely insulated with induction cookers, as if the energy sector is something distant.

Elsewhere in the country, a ribbon is being cut. The Prime Minister is inaugurating a luxury mall. The news channels broadcast the event with cinematic enthusiasm. Escalators glide. Lights shimmer across polished floors. Retail executives speak reverently about the future of urban consumption.

Inside the queue, consumption is measured differently.

“How long does a cylinder last in your house?” one man asks.

“Twenty days if we behave like monks,” another replies.

The government’s communication has been reassuring in tone and evasive in detail. Officials clarify that there is no shortage, only a temporary adjustment caused by global circumstances beyond anyone’s control. We are urged to rally together, like we did during Covid. That memory still carries a certain unease. We did not get through Covid because of resilience alone. We got through it the way we get through everything here, half aware, half looking away.

The cylinders, however, remain elusive.

India has developed a remarkable capacity to endure shortages while being told that shortages do not exist. Oxygen, medicine, food, shelter, justice. We have rehearsed this before.

Demonetisation was perhaps the most thorough rehearsal.

Then the queues were outside banks. People stood for hours holding currency that had suddenly become historical artifacts. The inconvenience was described as temporary and patriotic. Citizens agreed, because patriotism is easiest to demonstrate when one is already standing in line.

Today’s queue is quieter.

There are no speeches about sacrifice, only murmurs about dinner.

A man scrolls through his phone and reads aloud a headline.

“India’s growth story continues to inspire global investors.”

The queue absorbs this politely, the nagging discomfort of change notwitstanding.

In fairness, the government has been active. High level meetings have taken place. A task force has likely been formed. An advisory committee may be reviewing the formation of another advisory committee.

Meanwhile, the LPG distributor has locked his office door.

He emerges occasionally to say reassuring things like, “Stock is coming.”

It has become the national lullaby of supply chains.

Stock is coming.

At the tea stall someone brings up food delivery apps. Half the city now eats from cloud kitchens, invisible restaurants tucked into apartments and back lanes, run by migrant cooks and small entrepreneurs who cannot afford storefronts but can manage a stove and an internet connection.

Their entire business depends on LPG.

When the cylinder runs out, the startup economy meets physics.

A shortage like this does not just delay dinner. It shuts down kitchens. Orders disappear. Ratings fall. Rent remains due.

Strangely, the startup ecosystem has not noticed. Conferences continue to discuss artificial intelligence, blockchain, the future of logistics. Venture capital remains fascinated with disruption. The possibility that kitchens might not have gas rarely appears in presentations.

Somewhere in Bengaluru, a panel is probably discussing the future of food delivery.

Outside the LPG agency, that future is sitting quietly on a steel cylinder.

For years the technology industry has promised to solve food. Apps would optimise it. Algorithms would predict it. Capital would scale it. Entire conferences were built around the disruption of eating. Yet the system rests on something older, a cylinder filled with gas. When it does not arrive, the future of food delivery looks less like innovation and more like a queue.

Urban India has learned to look away from inconvenience with discipline. The middle-class practices selective visibility.

Shortages exist, but mostly somewhere else.

Among those who cook every meal at home.

Among those who cannot simply order dinner through an app.

For many households, the gas crisis remains a headline encountered briefly between notifications.

Dinner still arrives.

Until the cloud kitchen runs out of fuel.

By eleven, the queue has grown longer and thinner. The sun has taken charge.

A truck appears at the end of the road. The crowd straightens.

Hope is a renewable resource. The truck approaches slowly. It is carrying cement. The driver waves apologetically.

The queue settles back into itself.

A young woman calls her mother. “Cook only rice today,” she says. “We will see about vegetables tomorrow.”

This is how geopolitics enters domestic language. Not through treaties or briefings, but through cooking time.

Rice takes less gas.

At noon the distributor emerges again.

“The truck is delayed,” he says.

Nobody asks which truck.

Across the road, the television continues its broadcast from the mall. Inside, the food court prepares 12 varieties of gourmet pizza.

Back in the queue, someone shares rotis with the man behind him. A quiet solidarity forms, temporary but real.

The state exists mostly through announcements.

A spokesperson appears on television to say the situation is being monitored and citizens should not panic.

It is good advice.

Panic requires energy, and most households are conserving fuel.

Around two in the afternoon, the LPG truck finally arrives.

Cylinders are unloaded slowly.

By the time the 40th is exchanged, a rumour spreads that there are only 60.

There are at least a hundred people in line.

The distributor announces that more stock will come tomorrow.

The line giggles, squeals, and sighs.

One man says, “At least the mall opened on time.”

By evening, the queue dissolves.

A few households roll their full cylinders home like trophies. Others leave with empty ones, promising to return earlier tomorrow.

Night settles.

In kitchens across the neighbourhood, calculations continue. Should the daal be pressure cooked or simmered. Can the month be stretched with careful use of flame.

The war continues somewhere far away, discussed in rooms where nations choose their words carefully.

Here, its consequences are measured in minutes of heat.

India has always believed in patience.

Empires passed. Governments promised. Economists predicted abundance. And failed. Policymakers whined.

And still the citizen stands in line, cylinder at her feet, watching the horizon for a truck that may or may not arrive.

Tomorrow morning, the queue will form again.

Our lifelines are lines.

Anirban Ghosh is an Assistant Professor at Centre for Writing, Shiv Nadar Institute of Eminence