On Friday I attended a two-day conference at Muskaan, a wonderful organization in Delhi for adults with mental handicap. As I was a speaker, I was put up in the building itself. I arrived late at night and went straight to bed. When I got up the next morning, I was surprised to discover that just beyond the boundary wall was a sprawling, crowded slum.

I was having a cup of coffee when I heard a loud commotion outside the window. A crowd of at least 200 people had gathered and many of them were in a fierce battle – almost all were men and some were so enraged they seemed beside themselves. I watched as one young man tore his shirt off in fury, then waded into the throng, swinging his fists at anyone who got in his way.

The crowd was so thick it took me a moment or two to register that they were milling about in front of a water tanker and the fight was over who got served first. They were fighting over water. Buckets and drums lay strewn about all over the ground, a few women were trying to pull men away from each other and children were scampering about on the edges, seeming to enjoy the spectacle.

Then suddenly, the truck’s engine roared and moved away from the scene. The fighting stopped abruptly and the crowd slowly dispersed. Several drums of water remained unguarded and I stood to watch what would happen to them. After a few minutes, two men came with a long pole which they hung one drum on and then carried it together down the hill. I don’t know what happened to the others because I was getting late for the conference.

I went in to take a bath and watched the water flow out of the tap with even more amazement than usual.

Living in India has made me very grateful for what I used to take for granted. Water from a tap. Light from a switch. Refrigerators. Cooking gas. More clothes than I can wear. More food than I can eat.

But watching that battle not fifty feet from my room made my blood run cold. Why don’t those people just break into our buildings and our homes and take their share? They fought so fiercely among themselves over whose place was whose in the line, but when the truck left, whoever’s drum was filled felt safe enough to leave it to go home and get a pole and a friend to carry it back with. What kind of honor system is this? And how long can it last? How long should it last? Why should it last at all?

There have been wars over land, wars over religion, wars over oil. The next wars are going to be more basic. They will be wars over food. They will be wars over water.