By Prem Chandran
We are going to visit the floods,” cooed Ishani, my niece’s daughter, as she held her sister Shivani’s hand tightly. The two little girls were brimming with confidence to “face the floods” alongside their mother Ponnie, as they got into the back seat of the vehicle for a long journey. From the front seats, I and my wife were still wondering what awaited us along the way.
It was again time to court trouble. When it rained cats and dogs in Kerala for days, we remained comfortably placed at our homes perched atop an elevated landscape in a southern district. Yet some not-so-urgent work prompted us to head towards north, kids in tow, and there we were — right in the middle of floods. Life stood still for a while. The worst floods in the state in a century’s time marooned villages and towns, and spread the fear of God in the denizens’ mind.
These, we knew, were unpredictable times. Anything could happen; and the worst was feared. Rumours had it that the dams in the region might burst with the storing up of excess water drawn in by heavy, non-stop rain. Entire districts could submerge in water if it happened. The scenario was critical, we learned as we neared Kochi. Many villages and towns remained marooned, cut off from rest of the world. For many, it was a kind of ‘Water, water everywhere, nor a drop to drink’ situation. Families perched themselves precariously on the roofs of their houses, waiting for help. Helicopters hovered around, now and then, to pick the needy to safety. Road and rail bridges came under water and traffic remained halted.
Yet, to our mind, the highway we were taking for the journey, set along the western coast, was safe. Trouble lay elsewhere.
There was a deceptive silence along the national highway 17 as we drove past Lulu mall and proceeded cautiously to our destination. Anticipating trouble, not many vehicles were on the road. Fewer shops were open in the morning hour. We had covered over a hundred km before we saw water for the first time on the road. For those who drove in there, the natural instinct was to halt and pause. We did it too, but some vehicles started moving on hint that only a small stretch of the road was flooded.
For us, the destination of our travel was just five km away. Having come this far, it’s time, we thought, to make a try through the water.
We had kept the radio on to know the latest about the floods. No word was forthcoming about specific troubles along the way. Even as the highway was getting flooded, the radio we tuned in in the car made no mention of it. All its attention was focused on rescue operations in marooned areas or what ministers and top officials were saying. We hoped against hope the road ahead would be free of floods.
Mohandas Mankara, our contact in the temple town of Kodungallur to where we were heading, could not be accessed over phone. No calls could go through. It was time to take a risk and cross the flooded stretch of the road. I knew this much. While driving in water, what one must ensure is to keep pressing the accelerator and not stop it midway. The water level on the road at North Paravur was steadily rising.
After a brief pause, we too drove into the flooded road, and moved ahead slowly, inch by inch. The muscles on my face convulsed as I kept pressing the accelerator. If the car stopped, we would be in the middle of the flood waters. Some tense moments. God Forbid!
The small stream of vehicles coursed through the water for half a kilometre. Floodwaters entered the base of the car, and the two girls in the rear started screaming in fear. They pulled their legs up and sat cross-legged on the backseat, their mother hugging them closely. The two women – Ponnie in the back seat; wife Sindhu on my left– were so tense, they spoke no word. A watery grave, they feared, was near at hand.
About half an hour later, we managed to cross the currents and reach the other side of the flooded stretch. There, we stopped the vehicle at an elevation along the road, opened the doors, and ejected the water from the base. Towels were used to absorb the left-out water and clean the inside of the vehicle in a jiffy. The journey was resumed.
This, it turned out, was only the first part of our ordeal.
Having got the work done in Kodungallur for my son’s upcoming marriage, we took an interior route to get back to Kochi, and for onward journey to the south. It appeared to be a safe stretch. An hour later, we touched down the highway between Thrissur and Kochi. By now, it was 4pm; and it was still raining. The drive was getting increasingly difficult, and the wipers on the windshield were testing their own patience.
At the Christian meditation town of Potta, a line of cops stood in the way. The road ahead was blocked. Waters of the Chalakkudy river have entered the bridge half a km ahead, cops said, holding umbrellas over their heads. We were asked to retreat.
By now, the rain stopped briefly. The sky was overcast, there was no sunshine, and dusk seemed falling over us. First things first. We got into an eatery, filled our bellies and fed the kids. They were in a dazed state, and yet had not fully comprehended the seriousness of the situation. The hotels in the area reported full bookings of their rooms. Many families from the flood-hit areas had already taken sanctuary there. Since there was no possibility of reaching back even up to Kochi, we were virtually on the road. Night was just an hour or two away!
The local church, we were told, had opened a camp for those who were stranded like us. “Move in there,” proposed a local. Mobile phones did not work properly, there were one too many disruptions, and calls were not going. Time was running out. Sleeping on the highway, even in a vehicle, was risky. More so when we were a family. Our brains started working to find possible alternatives rather than herding ourselves into a refugee camp.
After hectic tries, we managed to call up a family acquaintance in the region. They were safely positioned, they said, and we could reach up to them safely via Aloor, they proposed. “You should reach fast, areas in the vicinity too could get flooded anytime,” they proposed.
We reached their home in half an hour. The house of Tiny was a recently built one with an imposing exterior. Tiny and her two kids were back at their home on vacation from the Gulf. My niece and Tiny were family friends in Dubai for years. The four children were overjoyed at having an unscheduled, rather unexpected re-union out here. They hugged each other and instantly turned themselves into a playful mood, running around the verandah, shouting, screaming and laughing.
The bells in the local church, opposite to Tiny’s home, tolled for the evening prayers. We were in the comfort of a decent home, but were far from trouble. The Chalakkudy river was close by, and its waters had leapt up to a short distance away from Tiny’s home. Several houses in the locality in Mala panchayat, adjoining Potta, were already flooded. Luckily for Tiny and her neighbours, there was no threat of the river water reaching their locality.
Problems, though, were aplenty. There was no water in the overhead tank as the area did not have electricity for the past two days of rain. The floodwaters had inundated a low-lying area where the KSEB transformer was placed. The home managed itself with a bulb or two, working on the power of an inverter. It too could exhaust anytime, Tiny feared; and it did happen so a day later, making us rely on candle lights for a night.
With the overhead tank empty and pipes at home turning dry, we had a way out. We turned to the well, and drew water from it with the help of a rope drawn through an iron pulley. We filled the buckets with water and took them inside the home for use in the kitchen and the toilets. It involved considerable physical exertion but we energetically got into the act. The four children watched our struggle with considerable curiosity and some concern. Later in the day, Tiny’s father-in-law came with men carrying a diesel generator and plastic pipes. They used these to pump water to the overhead tank. The home’s ordeal for water, for now, was over.
Life outside was getting worse. Fuel stations stopped dispensing with petrol and diesel, other than for government and police vehicles engaged in rescue and relief operations. They had instructions from the district administration to reserve the stock of fuel for emergency purposes. ATMs ran out of cash and shop shelves soon turned empty. With the area remained marooned, no fresh supply could reach the shops.
By evening, it looked like some order was being restored. With no electricity, the TV set was defunct, and not much information was forthcoming. The four kids were unmindful of the uncertainty haunting us. They played along. Slowly, word came that the water levels in the Chalakkudy river were receding. Hope was in the air also as the rain stopped, except for some drizzle now and then. The worst, it seemed, was over.
Phone connections got restored. We were able to make calls to the near and dear ones elsewhere. So, what’s the latest, we kept asking those who were keeping track of the flood situation. By late at night, we were convinced we could resume our journey by the next day. There was a sigh of relief on all our part, but not for the kids. Their frolicking was about to end. Rain or shine, they wanted to carry on and on with it.
It was time the next day morning for the five of us to pack our bags and get started. The morning sun shone brightly over our heads. Tiny and her father-in-law stood by, wishing us a safe journey. “Take care,” “God is Great,” they said, putting some confidence in us.
“God is Great,” repeated Ponnie and my wife, as the two waved the hosts good-bye. A smile lit up all our faces.
The church bell rang out loud for the morning congregation. Men and women from the neighbourhood started running out of their homes, heading straight to the church. So did the inmates housed at the relief camp in the church compound; men and women who lost their homes to the floods in the vicinity. “Wait,” Tiny’s kids screamed and ran to their home garden. They plucked two roses from there, and came back running; one they held out to Shivani, and the other to Ishani. A tinge of sadness filled the air. It was time to part ways. “See you in Dubai,” Shivani responded, a smile lighting up her face, and of Ishani’s too. The vehicle moved, headed for the highway, again. Bye Mala, for now!
(The author is a media consultant)