The Third Night

By the third night, we were a homogeneous, huddled mass cowering beneath the hanging rock. There was still hope, for a quick end.

It was different the first night. We were washed out of bed around 11 pm. Water entered even my apartment on the top floor of the three-storey building.

We had smirked when the media gave the disaster a grand name, ‘the Kerala flood-of-the-century’. In our castle guarded by the hills, that had seemed so far away, so manageable. Our two-unit apartment complex used to look like it was carved out of the hills. The fully residential block was interconnected by a pathway to another building at a lower level. That housed the basement parking, shops on the ground floor and, above the level of the pathway, a few apartments. Standing on our wind-swept balcony, we had leisurely marvelled at the breath-taking waterfalls and raging streams carrying away the torrential rain. For two days we had ignored the warnings and the red alerts. We had assumed the loud-speakers further downhill were for those people there. I had packed a backpack and a small suitcase, not for evacuation, for a trip after the waters had receded in the lower-lying areas, to help an NGO in the city with flood-relief. I took only the backpack when it was time to shift to the terrace. Later that night I thought about the precious papers and the old writing I had left behind. We could think of such that first night.

On the rain-washed terrace, beneath leaking aluminium roofing, deafened by the crescendo of rain and wind on those fragile flapping sheets, there were thirty four residents and about eighty from around who had set up camp on our grounds the preceding days. There was a stray-dog named Nancy too.

There were two deaths that night (not counting those who had drowned or were trapped within apartments or were washed away in the initial rush of water).

If the Kurups had stood outside their front door, someone would have remembered to carry the old couple from the adjacent block to our terrace. Instead, for whatever reason, they had locked themselves in and taken refuge on their balcony in waist-high water. The pathway between the blocks was already submerged. They were lucky we heard their faint cries for help. Two young lads, in their twenties, who lived together in a ground floor flat, claimed they were good at rock-climbing. They even had ropes with them. They quickly went down the side of the building to the top of the pathway, jumped from ledge to ledge and reached the Kurups’ balcony. We shouted directions from top. The Kurups were wrapped in make-shift cribs made of bed-sheets. The boys lowered the old couple and carried them over to our side. We pulled them up and cheered loudly. The boys were about to come up. One of them slipped and fell into the water, still holding to his rope. The other cautiously went towards his partner. For a moment, we thought he had rescued his friend. The two were in the water, just three or four meters from us, holding each other, looking up at us, grinning. There must have been another landslide or flash flood. The hungry water swept them away as if they were leaves. We pulled up the ropes.

In the faint light of dawn, we realized the scale of devastation. Our castle was like a raft barely afloat on swelling water. At times the water seemed calm enough for a long swim to safety. But the anger within was palpable. Whole buildings had collapsed, flowed, like Lego blocks. The hills had crumbled at two ends; all that remained of the green gentle slope and swaying trees was the portion in the middle, right over us, jagged edges and bare rock. It looked like a multi-headed serpent, guarding or waiting to strike.

‘When that decides to fall, we won’t feel it.’

‘We did this. We brought it on us, building on these hills.’

That first night and day, we were determined to survive. Leaders assumed responsibility; took stock of water and food (biscuit, coconut and banana) and decided on the rationing; arranged a make-shift privy near an outlet pipe; instructed people to save battery-power and take turns to reach the outside world, with calls or flashlight; in teams and shifts, we stood guard. There was no network-coverage. We could not have been more than a few miles from rescue centres. We were as good as marooned on a desert island in Bermuda Triangle.

The camaraderie in the first 24 hours was amazing. Men and women selflessly helped each other. Was it for social media or a record for posterity? Will they end up like me after another betrayal by the state, another helpless wait for a basic need like water or even life? Not that I was not doing my bit, in comforting or keeping that hundred-odd square meters of space liveable. I did not write then. That came later.

There were spots of bother. A group prayed loudly and urged others to join them. Some did not like that but no one dared to oppose any type of prayer. There were debates: was it man-made, a mismanagement of dams, or a natural disaster; did the state do enough to keep us safe; and, what is the way ahead. No one remarked on the irony in discussing the last issue.

We were a group of very different people then, a storehouse of information, characters and stories for a writer like me.

Anu, the thin pretty lady from first floor with a frail husband and a young kid, asked for my help, ‘Please, I don’t know what to do, whatever happens, please help us.’ I was not the only one she approached. I thought of a love story. It did not have to be tragic. There could be love, sex or assault, a bloody twist, drugs and liquor too. ‘In these circumstances on this terrace???’ a speech-bubble popped up. I was quite happy with the mind-games, anything to escape from the reality.

Mrs Mina, the obese Income Tax Commissioner from my floor, was not her usual self. She was one of the leaders managing the resources. She and her husband, a high-ranking police officer on duty and not on the terrace with us, were not the residents’ darlings. Once, the Mathews’ driver entered the lift along with Mrs Mina. She told him to step out and wait for the next lift. He protested. Later that day, her husband foisted on the driver multiple charges of public nuisance (drunk and disorderly conduct) and GBH towards his wife. There, on the terrace, Mrs Mina and that driver got along quite well.

The first afternoon, Mrs Mina briefly managed to get a call through to her husband. We crowded around her. 

‘Have you contacted the Navy and the Coast Guard?’ she asked.

‘We are in the queue,’ he said.

‘Even they are on the queue,’ someone whispered.

‘Just hang on…’ the husband said, ‘that area is one of the hardest to reach.’ He paused, ‘I am trying for a helicopter to get you out.’

The crowd dispersed. Mrs Mina did not try to convince us that her husband had meant a collective ‘you’. She, along with her ‘help’, returned to camp-duties.

I kept an eye on that ‘help’. She is ten years old or younger. Some of us in the Residents Association had wanted to do something for the kid. She worked all day and did not go to school. We feared even worse. She speaks Chinese or some language like that. I have seen her weep, all alone in the stairwell. What could we do against Mrs Mina and her husband? Her situation seemed better on the terrace. She and Nancy the dog had become bosom buddies. Someone suggested naming her. ‘Nancy and Pansy…?’ No. ‘Nancy and Fancy…’ The kid giggled.

That day, one more died, a young overweight man. He had been helping with a tarpaulin. Just keeled over and died. We had to make space for him too. Sadly, that was near the privy.

The second night, one of the leaders decided we needed entertainment. There was no dearth of singers and stand-up comedians. But, it was tough to shift focus from the heavy rainfall on the roofing and the sound of swirling winds. A loud crack from the top of the hill and a series of lightning strikes ended the cultural show. That sapped all our confidence.

Next day, we chose comatose slumber. No one spoke or prayed loudly. The phones remained dead. Anyone awake just stared at the serpent on the hill.

The third night was the worst. Water level rose even further, just a meter or two from the terrace. Cracks appeared on the side of the building. All our defences crumbled too. The stench of rotting carcasses in the water and outside got to us finally. More than thirty succumbed to fever. There was no doctor, only a few trainee nurses. They thought it could be rat fever. We thought it was psychosomatic. Those who had secreted a stash of biscuits brought it out, offered to all. No one was hungry. People woke up from fitful slumber sweating and shivering, blabbering about visions. We tried to silence them. We did not dare to slap anyone back to their senses. That could have triggered mass violence. The serpent seemed to lower its head, its cold dark stare on us, the forked tongue leaving deep scars. We submitted to its power, lay low, without a whimper.

Three died that night of natural causes, possibly fear and exhaustion.

Rain stopped for a while before dawn. No one had kept watch. No one had waved the flashlight. Around 10 am, we heard someone call, ‘Is anybody there?’

I think it was Nancy and Fancy who responded first. Those on the two rescue boats must have got a scare of their life when about a hundred rose from the dead.

One was a Navy rescue boat and the other a fishing vessel. There were policemen on both, looking official, like bouncers outside a club. They told us there was space for fifty; they had just made it; another rescue mission seemed unlikely for some time; some more dams were going to be opened. The news was delivered loud and clear.

Mrs Mina got onto the Navy boat. How do the privileged get privilege without anyone realizing it? Two families who lived on the first floor refused to go in the fishing vessel citing religious customs or diet. They got to share space with Mrs Mina. Some others were chosen too. There was some kind of lottery. Everyone obeyed the officials, not one raised a demand, not a single unruly incident. What was the point? Face a flood or life after defying the state? That was a no-brainer.

Anu, the thin pretty lady, did not need anyone’s help. She insisted that she and her kid would go only with her husband. He too was allowed. That was the only exception. One middle-aged couple left their differently-abled kid. Siblings, spouses, parents, children had to choose, one or the other. Choice was theirs, not the right to dissent though. Any group that expressed displeasure was left behind to sort out their issues. Willing or not, some stepped aside meekly, some formed silent queues. Some like me did not participate.

Mrs Mina’s help was not selected. Something broke within me. I held Fancy’s hand, pushed through the crowd, approached the fisherman, a dark burly man with blood-shot eyes and a grim face. How many times has he had to wage a battle against death, his and others?

‘What’s your name?’ I asked.

‘Anees.’

‘Anees, take her with you. Just keep her away from that fat lady there.’

I think Anees understood. I did not tell him that the Minas were high-ranking officers. The policeman next to him must have known.

‘Get her to an orphanage, please,’ I begged.

Anees scowled. ‘She will be with my family, not in one of those hell-holes.’ The official-cum-bouncer shrugged. They were not really bad. I lifted the kid onto the boat. She did not thank me. She cried a little for Nancy.

We were left with fresh supply of food, water and clothes. They need not have.

The situation does not matter now. We are able to stand, smile. And stare back at the serpent. When the floods are over, if it is still standing, they will bring it down. No serpent, no god can survive the onslaught of man.

I started to write then. All that I have is this pocketbook, wrapped in plastic, A7 single line 160 pages, without space or time for editing. Will I be the bottle carrying this message?

Flood artworks