Chennai floods : It was a normal day before it turned into a nightmare

It was a typical first of the  month-kind of day on December 1 when it began to rain. Like everyone else, I too wanted  to go home, with an ATM stopover.  Having already suffered through flooded roads due to heavy rains from November 1, I thought I knew how to get home to Kotturpuram--the longer route via the Marina. However, from MRC Nagar, struggling through water I began to get an eerie feeling that this could be as bad as the October 28, 2005 rains. Only, this was far worse.

The  waters appeared to be everywhere by the early hours of December 2, we thought we were in a doomsday movie set. The skies were still dark, and residents emerged from homes, stupefied. The milk service was the second thing to go. The power went off the previous night. Internet was down and there was really no way of knowing what was happening elsewhere. “It must be worse,” said an 80-year old neighbour and we all collectively dipped into our survival kit. The swollen waters had reached three houses down the road from mine, while the Gandhi Mandapam Road resembled a war zone. Compound walls and sturdy dividers had crashed; broken branches were everywhere. There was absolute silence as people watched the swell of water.

The sluice gates at Chembarambakkam lake had been opened, we knew that. We were prepared for a release of 6000 cusecs, knowing it would grow in volume from water from elsewhere. By evening it was clear that over three times that quantity had been released.

Working in the media is both a plus and a minus. You get all the news first hand and you are also one of the first to know the extent of damage. You are in a horror  bubble of sorts, as you go about filing death toll, injuries, mass displacement of both the poor and the rich. Friends and relatives began calling on cell phones which were beginning to give out. We were marooned but like the scene on our Gandhi Mandapam Road, where ropes were splayed across so that the marooned could hold on to them and walk to safer ground, we held out a helping hand to each other.

No one expected the magnitude. Simple things like going out to buy a torch or a candle light from a shop 50 metres away became a inhuman task. Many men and women died simply by walking down a familiar road that had become a monstrous, unfamiliar body that night and the next as they became displaced. Most simply sat on the street pavement. No reaction. Just numbness. Unable to process the sudden change in life and circumstances. Help and comfort was simply not enough. A cup of tea cost Rs 30 because tea vendors were so few.

The single most horrifying thing for Chennaiites that December day was the fact that we could not stay indoors, nor could we venture out. There were simply no official announcements, the cop on the road was equally bewildered. The city was a sea of water in many areas.

By 6.30 pm,  I was ready to leave from my office in Vepery.  Many of my had colleagues waded through knee deep water to try and reach the office, but lack of transport was a challenge. Some could not even step out since their homes had turned into an island. Those who made it had a harder time getting back. On most roads water was at door knob level. A number of cars stopped. Every time a bike overtook us a huge body of displaced water crashed into the side of a car, jolting us. I thought death was just a step away. Tell me, what do you tether a car to, if it stalls in the middle of the deluge? I still don’t know how I managed to get home. To keep fear at bay I kept reciting the tables until I entered the house, fully wet. Home that day was pitch dark, cold and quite unfamiliar for most of us.  Flood waters were two doors away waiting to lick my walls too, I am sure. A kitten mewed somewhere and I could not even find it. It kept bothering me, and no Chennai did not sleep that night. Drivers turned away from a swollen, sullen and angry road only when the reflection of the headlights dipped further into the water. There were no flood warning signages. No beacon light. NO announcement on PA systems. It’s a wonder the death toll was not higher. This city which had handled the tsunami so well—where did all those cops and officials vanish I wonder—cut a sorry figure.

Things were getting worse. You see, news came that the airport was also flooded and had been closed down and people could neither fly in nor fly out.  We had to take my mother-in-law for a post surgical check up. Luckily, we had parked her at New Woodlands hotel with a nurse, at Rs 4000 a day, a few days earlier. We were lucky . After  the rains, no rooms were to be had, and at the end of nine days we had to shift her too. Because the hotel had prior booking of her room.

Getting her to T Nagar was enough of an adventure.  It was surreal. Engine roaring and the water crashing into the sides with each passing vehicle leaving a wake behind like sea borne steamers. There were moments when it appeared as if the engine would give up and stall. But this did not happen till the next day.

Anxiety was building up as the car went deeper and deeper into the great pools the roads had become. Anxiouly looking at on coming vehicles to gauge the depth you had to traverse. The  head lights of the on coming Bolero suddenly disappears just leaving a mild glow under the water and you realize you cannot move forward any more. Turning back is not pleasant but it was not a situation with choices. Getting out of the car meant wading through sewage water. Again, what choice did any of us have ?

Morning brought all the neighbours out and the crisis driven bonhomie started. Assessment of situation, offer of share  information about what was happening else where in the cities. At the foot of the busy bridge over the river Adayar is a swift fast current- foreboding and daunting. Slowly the reality sinks in – that you have been given first row premium seats to a calamity show.

And then we find the spirit. My neighbour, comes knocking with milk packets, candles and her dog Dino in tow, offering help. Another offers to send coffee. Maids walk in, like a ray of sunshine. In the wee hours a woman from the tenement  comes  knocking on my gate wanting to pee. You realize the full horror of it then. Thousands of people out there. Angry, sullen.  Its brewing underneath

By now Chennai gets into self help mode.  Social media comes alive with staggering info on do- gooders and givers. By now a stream of women, men and children traverse our streets, wanting sarees, biscuits, blankets, under garments. Two men come reeling and reeking of liquor early in the morning. They want cash. Obviously.

We brush aside such things. Like the mosquitoes we cannot worry about, you have no time to dwell on kind of harassment . You are in whirlpool of activity. For, by now a number of journalists, activists, stars, musicians and corporate honchos are into relief and rescue work and everyone pitches in. Tempers, tiredness and anger would all explode later, much later.

Through the days of calamity, the corporation garbage cleaner arrived on the dot. We wondered where he was taking the garbage, but decided not to voice the question. The city’s  support system was like the huge hole on Madhya Kailash—requiring a lot of work.  And our boatmen.. what a salute they deserve from us, rescuing people, pets and all manner of things from the wettest of places.

After 4 days, the Uber and Ola drivers came online. With their own horror stories. Jamal lives in Semmancherry. He had dropped a client at Guindy and decided to head home at 8 pm on December 1 because he was hungry. This is his story.

“Half way through I knew I was running into something huge. I kept the car in 2nd gear and tried moving but the currents were often strong,” he recalls. On reaching home he and his wife ran ropes weighted down with iron around the wheels and tied them around a huge tree. “My wife and I slept in the car that night, because I decided it is safer for us to be together. In the morning we waded into our home which was under knee deep water and salvaged what we could. Someone brought food packets but it was a huge fight because people thought food would get over. People were grabbing everything. What worried me was the lack of thunder and lightning. My grandfather used to day such rains are a bad sign. I went and bought basic provisions, packed them in plastic packets and stored them on a loft. My wife and I stayed on top of a table mounted on the reading table and she cooked like that only, while I kept a watch on the water and the gas stove. It was very,  very tense. The next day someone told me some people had got washed away. I felt so numb I could say nothing, do nothing.

When the waters receded I found my TV was completely gone. I had bought it in the Gulf. People like me do not use ready cash to buy such goods. We save and save for years. Today I have lost my fridge, tv, mixer and a whole lot of kitchen item. The furniture is a write-off and my taxi repair cost over Rs 7000. Suddenly I have become poor all over again, and I do not now if I can save up once again to buy all this. I am 40 years now . The really poor, who live from day to day will not be affected. But someone like me has been robbed of a lot of things.  The only good thing for me was Dina Thanthi article quoting Kamal Hassan who wondered where all the tax payers money went. One paper got shared by so many of us. That is exactly how we all feel. ”