Until last week, if you’d told me I could simultaneously handle conversations over two phones, and write down details at the same time, I would have laughed. Not any more.
December 1, 2015, changed it all for thousands of people across the city we lovingly call Singara Chennai. Overnight, many families had no contact with their loved ones. Water flowed everywhere. Luckily, so did basic human goodness.
The power lines were down in most parts, but some got lucky. I was one among them. WiFi worked, and that meant we were able to access the panic-filled tweets and Facebook messages that poured in from across the world.
The next four days were filled with incessant phone calls. Some people asked us to trace a family member, some beseeched us to go check in on their immobile grandparents. Hospitals ran out of food for patients, and some made desperate calls, asking for just 50 dinners for 125 patients and staff. “We’ll manage, but please arrange for some food,” a doctor said.
The city is limping back to normalcy, but the desperation and helplessness in their voices is seared in our memories forever.
So many people handled rescue and relief calls. When the phones died, they tapped into any available WiFi network to handle WhatsApp messages. There was the case of the pregnant lady from Mudichur, another who was airlifted went on to deliver twins, patients who died in hospitals, families that waited with a deceased member, not knowing where to head out in the watery darkness…
The city was pushed to its limits, but how its people rose! Those on relief calls developed unlikely friendships. Our contact list brims with names prefixed with ‘flood’. These volunteers, running into hundreds, across Chennai and Bangalore, shared numbers and places to source supplies from. Nothing affected us for the first five days. Sleep did not matter, and all I did in the name of cooking was a one-pot meal that was breakfast, lunch and dinner. The dining table was my workspace, and by the time one finished a phone call, there would be 10 others, each as heart-breaking.
I have entire sheets filled with addresses and phone numbers that I verified before passing on to the control room that took charge of any rescue calls.
In the midst of all this, you had some who used this opportunity to send you on a wild-goose chase. There was one tweet saying an RJ was bringing 10 truckloads of relief material from Bangalore and that he needed help with distribution. This was on Day 3 of the crisis, when everyone was hungry and desperate. Calls were unanswered, and the phone was switched off. The tweet was a hoax.
Another spoke of a request from Adyar Cancer Institute to rush a child there in an ambulance. The parents did not respond to my call. The cynic in me called the hospital. Dr. Shanta was on line. “These people are nothing short of criminals to do something like this during a crisis,” she said.
Those of us coordinating relief developed a new language that was crisp and concise. Napkins and panties were not ‘delicate’ words anymore. Young boys volunteering called. “Ma’am, you have panties? Naps?” Every source was tapped, every favour cashed in. The result? — sacks and sacks of everything from sambar powder and milk powder to cartons of milk and tubes of ointment. People brought loads of stuff from so many southern cities. There was little pilferage at source. It was a sight to see actors walk around with writing pads and pens, keeping track of every item that came in. So, a pack of 50,000 water purification tablets, delivered to the wrong person, was tracked to an Innova, down to its registration number.
There were happy calls too — from people who had found their loved ones. In the midst of joy, they took the time to get back to us. Nothing gave us more joy than seeing a number and name struck off the list.
The floods showed all the power of social media. Actors helpfully retweeted ‘verified’ messages. They went viral; sadly, some of them were ‘unverified’ ‘verified’ messages. Everything became a joke for some; even others’ agony. You had people calling you ‘sister’, and pinging constantly, with absolutely no brotherly love!
It’s been a little over a week since the crisis, and I’ve learnt a lot. I can now put a voice to desperation. Relief. Hunger. Thirst. I can put a voice to fear too.
I found it hard to smile. And then on Wednesday evening, I finally did. I’d called someone to order something, and was put on hold. Five minutes later, someone called for blankets. Another for mosquito coils and sanitary napkins. The first person came back online. “You want napkins or blankets? Which NGO? Which area?...” I rattled on. “But, you called me,” said a startled voice — it was the florist. I’d called to order carnations for the husband’s birthday!
