Five days. That’s how long I was stuck in my flat — alone, with one candle, a half-empty water can, half a loaf of bread, and a few tomatoes and onions. As the days went by, the candles were replaced by oil lamps, vegetables with dal, and water with, well, thirst. Looking back now, I couldn’t have cruised through it, if not for that hesitant knock on my door on the third rainy evening.
December 2. It was just another rainy night, or so I thought. I had tucked myself in early, only to wake up with ugly mosquito bites. The electricity had been turned off, and my inverter battery had drained. The rains beat down with a vengeance and clouds hovered, spraying heavy blobs. Calls started pouring in. A few friends told me about their cancelled flights, relatives cautioned me against stepping out, and my parents, who are in the U.S., asked me what I had made for breakfast. Clearly, they hadn’t got the wind of the Chennai rains yet.
I walked down the stairs to the ground floor to check on my car, but the lower rungs were beneath dirty brown water. It was then that I decided to stay home. It will all be over in a day, I thought, putting my feet up on a table and cosying up in the sofa with a book. As the pages of Margaret Atwood’s The Heart Goes Last thinned, the candle dwarfed, and fizzed out by early night. Blinded by the sudden darkness, except for the thin line of wandering smoke, I found my way to the kitchen for the lighter. I lit four lamps, placed it in different locations of my house, and attempted to ward off the fear of imaginary hands in the darkness.
Amid the sound of crickets, croaks and monster rain, I munched on the brick-like bread, took a tiny sip of water, and covered myself in a blanket — head to toe. My phone lay dead beside me, as I got ready for the digital detox — Day 2. It went by as usual, the only added peril being the fizz from the taps. No water. Half-full buckets were now, without compare, my most prized possessions.
That night, I dreamt of a giant whirlpool and cows, and woke up to a rhythmic knock on my door. A neighbour from the floor above had come by to check on me, with a plate of hot bajjis . Five slices of happiness in the midst of gloom. We spoke about the rains, roads and survival. A strategy was prepared on the spot — I gave them all the vegetables I had, and they gave me food. Symbiotic relationship – I recalled the term from my biology class. For the next two days of rain imprisonment, we pooled in resources that ensured minimum water usage, and cooking gas, and less growling tummies.
The water had receded by Day 4. The power supply was erratic through the day, water motors sprung to life, the landline buzzed, phones beeped. Parents anxiously barked out frantic questions on the phone, scared that the line would die again. Life was almost back on track.
Day 5, as the sun shone, I logged onto the Internet, saw a flood of messages, posts on relief work, marooned flats, and bodies; I realised that despite all those dark lonely evenings, I had always been on the sunnier side.
