Dear Readers,
I write to you from an elite sense of entrapment, with supplies being delivered at my doorstep, garbage magically disappearing and the self-fulfilment of staying indoors and contributing to ‘flattening the curve’. While I sat in my balcony this afternoon feeling sorry for myself, running my mind through clichéd thoughts of knowing the value of freedom only when it’s taken away, I tried to remember the last time my movement was this strictly restricted.
My mind took me back to 2005, when I was still in school and my only worries were unit tests and mid-term exams. The state board curriculum that educated me was dull in every manner, and I’d always put off studying until unavoidable. I was thankful for any delay in my need to commit text to memory, only to purge my brain of it all the very next day in a half-dazed flurry of ‘Answer in Brief’ and ‘Give Reasons’. To add insult to injury, my first set of exams each academic year coincided with my birthday. I could come to terms with not being able to distribute sweets to my classmates or have celebrations, but having to study on my special day always seemed cruel. That year, however, had other plans for me.
I remember sitting at my study table in our 2BHK in Bombay, overlooking a narrow street, reading reluctantly for a geography exam the next day. My attention would often drift to the window in front of me, staring into the downpour that hadn’t let up for the past two days. Bombay rains have always been an intrinsic part of growing up, a sign of good luck and respite from harsh summers. For a young school girl, heavy rains also came with the hope of school holidays and half-days. My selfish thoughts would wish for our reliably blocked drains to clog up and relieve me of my books and teachers every time it rained for over two hours. This day was no different, and I crossed my fingers and muttered in hope to the clouds for them to keep showering until the next day - my birthday - was declared a holiday.
It was 26th July 2005. By noon (and 2 of 8 chapters in), the water had risen to an adult’s knees or an adolescent's hips. I climbed into the box grille and watched cars chug to a halt, people wading in opaque, brown water and the strewn garbage from our street floating to the surface to get caught in drain currents. At the corner of my lane, I saw how the water began to pour into a small hole in a building wall. Frantic, a whole family of rats was swimming against the gaining water, trying to find higher ground. Full-grown rats had emerged first, their fur matted and glossy from being drenched. They stood on a fine ledge, urging the semi-hairless young ones to follow them out of their once-dry home. That visual is still so vivid in my mind, and I can imagine the squeals that must have filled the air at that spot.
I was conflicted – was I happy about this incessant rain or was I scared of the consequences? I was, however, but an almost-12 year old, and found myself leaning towards 'happy'. Two hours later, I got word from school that our exams were being put on hold until Bombay dried up. I tossed my textbook in joy (followed by stern disapproval from my mother) and sat by the window watching the goings on for the rest of the day. Needless to say, it wasn’t pretty.
We were starting to worry about how long this would continue, and we only had enough supplies for a couple of days. Our electricity had been shut off for hours, and water had begun pouring into the ground floor apartments. In the evening, our downstairs neighbour thumped on our door. She was frazzled and asked us (the pet-owning family) to rush downstairs. A stray dog had floated into our building and had gotten badly stuck in a spikey grille by the scruff of his neck. He looked miserable and had no control over his body. He was exhausted. Barked-out. Fading. My father’s hands were too large to manipulate him through the burglar-proof grille. I knelt down in the cold, filthy water and slipped my hands right through. I pet the floating dog, who looked up at us for the first time since we found him. He looked straight at me, weak and shivering, with deep brown eyes. I could tell from the new ripples in the water that he was using his last bit of energy to wag his tail, responding to the warmth from my touch. I pulled him closer to relieve the strain against the iron, and released his skin from the menacing arrow in the grille. He jumped in the water and spun a little, immediately kicking off and away. I was terrified and happy simultaneously. I dreamed about the little brown guy that night.
The next morning, it was still pouring. I opened my eyes to my mother staring out the window with my sister on her hip. She looked worried. My father had decided to wade out and get some groceries and candles for the next few days - it didn’t look like things would get better any time soon. It had already been an hour since he left the house and I could see every shade of panic on my mother’s face, reflective of the worst-case-scenarios she was playing in her head. A neighbour had made things worse by striking up conversation about potholes and open manholes that lay hidden beneath murky waters. We sat together by the window, tense in solidarity.
Another two hours passed before my father returned. His characteristic knock on the door brought the widest smiles to our faces, and we greeted his haggard form with more love than he expected. His hands were full of bags, indicative of his successful waterlogged adventures, and we heaved a large, familial sigh.
Later that evening, when the excitement and worry had died down, I was sitting in my room reading Matilda when my parents called me to the kitchen. I walked in to find them around the dining table in the light of twelve candles. Potato chips, a single pastry and three samosas filled the table. My father had wandered through the morning until he found a Monginis open and bought up the last surviving of their party snacks. I nearly cried. I had written off my birthday and retreated into quiet until this moment.
Regardless of all the subsequent parties and warm gestures from friends and family as the years have rolled by, that one candlelit evening with shared laughter, the smell of deep fried samosas and gushing rain outside will always hold a special place in my mind.
Yours in quiet midday reverie,
Ishika
