A Birthday Chennai Will Never Let Me Forget

People tell stories. All sorts of stories. About their 25th birthday. “Dude, I was so smashed, I can’t remember how many drinks I had!” or “I went for a solo midnight trek and turned a quarter of a century atop a hill, surrounded by bliss.”

Nobody ever says, “I turned 25 years old covered in sweat, and mopping sewage out of my apartment.” Maybe someone has over the ages. I do not know. But, such stories are normally aren’t relished by very many. Which, of course, drags into question my storytelling effort at this point.

But, the Chennai Floods, are full of stories. More will seep into our lives, and until such time as they hold your attention, this one will attempt to strengthen your faith in humanity and the power of resilience.

The day before my birthday (which falls on December 2nd), I woke up, brushed, bathed and broke my fast as usual. I threw on my most boring clothes for work, and prepared to hail an auto rickshaw. The rain, which had started at around 6 in the morning, had picked up, but I still supposed there was a way to get to work. As it turned out, there wasn’t. So, I stay put, delaying my arrival at the office by a good two hours. However, by noon, it became quite clear that I would have to forget any plans of getting to work that day.

I called my parents, who had grand plans of coming down to Chennai that night. “Cancel your train, Ma,” I said, hopefully in a tone that wouldn’t betray disappointment. “It’s pouring cats and dogs, and it looks like Chennai is heading to its second flood in as many weeks.” I sat in my room, wearing an expression to match the gloom outside. Minutes trickled past, and hours dragged on. The heavens showed no signs of relenting.

My flatmate arrived in the evening, looking as though she’d been dragged through hell (which she would insist, she was). Completely soaking from the waist down, she towelled herself dry, and together in our dark living room (for electricity had deserted us several hours before), we sat watching the rain fall fast and thick.

Suddenly, there was a flurry of activity. Our neighbours, the only other people on the ground floor, came rushing out of their home. The man of the house was ushering his elderly parents into his car. The children shut themselves into the hatchback, too.

“Are you going somewhere?” my flatmate asked the man’s wife.

“Yes,” she answered, hurriedly. “We’re going to Perambur, a little while away from here. Water’s entered our apartment.”

That’s odd, I thought. If it’s entered theirs… then it must’ve entered ours, too. We share the ground floor, after all.

I swallowed.

“Check your bathrooms,” the woman said and disappeared into her car.

My flatmate and I, panicky, rushed to our bathrooms, only to stare in shock at the sight of mugs and buckets floating in murky grey water. That unsightly colour could only mean one thing — it wasn’t just rain. It was sewage.

Yelping, we rushed about, picking things off the floor and flinging them onto our beds; shoving everything in lower shelves to higher ground; turning off appliances; and finally, packing an emergency bag. (I can barely remembered what I barked into the phone when I called my mother.)

Once we were ready to leave, my flatmate and I paused. Where did we have to go from here?

As we considered possibilities, each growing feebler than its predecessor, our neighbour, an angel of woman, appeared on our doorstep.

“Stay with us,” she said, from under her umbrella.

We didn’t hesitate. Crossing rooms, and practically sliding on the mixture of water, slime and clumps of dead insects the basement floor had pushed up, we made our way into the comfort of a stranger’s home.

Even as we climbed the stairs to our neighbour’s flat, I couldn’t believe she’d opened her home to us — two girls whose names she didn’t know; two girls who could’ve been the worst human beings on the planet; two girls, who, up until then, hadn’t been the most visible persons in the block of apartments. Yet, here was a woman and her family who, without a moment’s hesitation, had offered to put a roof over our heads and dry ground under our feet, along with enough food to keep us well-fed until the rain receded.

That night, all of us sat in darkness, seeing only silhouettes of one another. But the family’s warmth pervaded the house. I was touched. They made jokes, laughed easily, and spoke to us kindly. I smiled despite the rain, and despite the sticky situation Chennai had landed us in.

I slept surprisingly well, considering the worries that had threatened to haunt my sleep — my books on the lower-most shelf, my sketches, my clothes, my grandmother’s handkerchief which had slipped from my fingers and landed in the dirty water on the floor. Would the rains ruin our cosy apartment?

My neighbours smiled and brought us some water, told us to sleep well, and bade us goodnight, and I rested a little easier, realising their kindness was something I could come to rely on for a night longer.

Little did I know that they would go above and beyond in their efforts to welcome us into their lives, and add a spark to our own.

See, the day of my birthday dawned grey and dull, but it was nothing to compare to my mood. Doing my best to mask the sheer disappointment of having to spend a birthday smelling of sweat and something that has bathed in a swamp, my flatmate and I donned makeshift boots, imaginatively fashioned out of plastic covers, and entered our apartment for a quick survey.

I nearly gagged. A thick smell of sewage lingered in the air, and the floor was still mighty slippery. Cautiously, we made it across the living room and got to the mops in the still flooded bathrooms. Several minutes were spent getting as much water out of the flat as possible. In fact, my hand still hurts from the effort of pushing the insect-and-centipede-dotted water out of my room alone.

After this cheerful spell, we spent the rest of the day wishing for nothing more than a warm bath. But, obviously, there was water everywhere, but not a drop to drink. Or even think of coming in direct contact with, unless you wanted to house some bacteria in your system.

In the evening, my neighbours stepped out for a while to stock up on any food that was still left on shelves of departmental stores. Minutes after they returned, the kind woman of the house announced that she’d brought pastries. And that I, the birthday girl, could cut one of the pieces for now.

It was all I could do to keep myself from crying. Honestly, this woman.

We shared a light moment, all of us, digging into the most delicious butterscotch pastries I’ve ever eaten. It was an amazing evening amid the rain, greyness and gloom.

But, despite our neighbours’ kindness, we couldn’t stay on for ever. Then again, all escape routes out of our apartment were water-logged.

My parents would kill me if I waded through waist-deep water, I reflected. Even if I was only trying to get out of this hell.

There was only one way out, then, we decided. Compounds. They surrounded our building, much like the muck and water, but one wall… one wall led to another apartment which led to a relatively less water-logged street.

So, backpacks strapped to our backs, we waded quickly through dirty water, clambered onto a stool, and leapt over a compound wall, and then another and another, before we found our road to drier streets.

I could’ve danced, honestly. Even with my scabbed knee.

The rest of our adventure was a blur: our walk along a water-logged street, an auto rickshaw ride through tiny inundated streets too narrow for a rat to squeeze through; a drive into the IIT campus, where the promise of family and more hospitality awaited me; and the two outings within the IIT greenery culminating in my flatmate and I getting drenched from head to toe. Even my remarkably feeble (yet strangely successful) attempts at mobilising relief groups and material to be taken to Chennai and Cuddalore haven’t developed an adhesive attitude to my mind. Partly because I know they have been nothing compared to the tales of horror and heroism that have been pouring in, and partly because I know my work in Chennai isn’t done.

But I will remember one thing: Chennai is a remarkable city. It destroyed itself, but it’s learning how to save itself, too. There have been victims. But there have been volunteers, too. And in some cases, there have been volunteers among the victims themselves. And that sort of bravery and grit is something I doubt I’ll see again in a long time.

People tell stories. All sorts of stories. About their 25th birthday. Well, this is mine. In many ways, it was a birthday to forget. In so many others, it was one to remember. This is a story to myself, as much as it is to you, lest I should ever forget.