Raindrops, little bullets that explode upon impact, fell upon the city, turning every trough in the road into a bucket. Low-lying homes were flooded. People were on terraces, hailing boats, choppers and their able-bodied neighbours. Their food supply was affected. They had no access to water.
I had no access to the internet. I didn’t know how long my inverter would work. I used my mother’s internet ration to connect with people I consider friends. I also connected with strangers on the internet, united by a wave of empathy and concern. The internet is a beautiful place to call out for help, and to offer assistance.
The rains didn’t cause floods near my house. They created immense pools of stagnant water at street corners, just high enough to drown the car-exhaust and ensure the audacious driver floated to a halt in the middle of the road. As calamities go, this was highly unspectacular. The rains, however, disabled the power station, telecommunication towers and shops in general: there was little tap-water (water was still available from wells and hand-pumps), electricity and internet. So the rains that weren’t life-threatening by any standard became a mirror in which people were confronted by their dissatisfied first-world images.
It was a frustrating evening. I was feeling bored, unproductive and particularly useless. As I was craving for internet-access, I took control of my mother’s phone – the only one which could connect to the web. Turning to Twitter, mistaking it for panacea, I said within 140 characters – “Anyone in Adyar/Besant Nagar who wants help – food, shelter, assistance – call me at 24912062 #chennairains”. As a mode to find purpose in life, the internet offers instant gratification: I was retweeted several times, and my chest swelled with pride and satisfaction.
Ten minutes later, I recognized the futility of my action as the BSNL line was dead. As my tweet was winning over the world, I was cut off from everyone else in the darkness of my bedroom. I was left feeling humiliated and bored. Certain that I didn’t have a shot at both triumph and suffering, I felt a familiar lurch: I should do something.
So I took the scooter keys, unlocked the vehicle and sped out in the mild drizzle. My head was swelling with goodness, and the possibility of noble actions that could help several families. This gladiatorial sensation lasted until I reached the gate, where the watchman asked me, “Where are you going?”
Floundering for an answer, as I clearly didn’t know where I was going, I explained to him: “Udhavi seiya poren.” (I am going to help.)
“Yaaruku udhavi?” (Help whom?)
Like the Sun News reporter, I said with conviction: “Baadhikka patta makkalukku.” (The afflicted masses.)
Naturally, my watchman was stunned by my insipid reasoning, although, I am certain, he didn’t have an idea about the troubles in my mind. He followed up with a kind face one normally reserves for children and victims: “Where are the afflicted masses?”
“I was hoping you will tell me,” I said. “Where are the people who are suffering? I will go by the Adyar river. I am sure people are suffering there.”
“No, no,” he said. “You don’t know anything. People have been rescued near the Adyar river. They are all safe. You cannot help anyone if you go there.”
“Then where must I go?” I said, perturbed.
“You must go to Saidapet, or Kotturpuram. I hear there is severe flooding there. Water is very deep. And they don’t have food.”
“So I will go to Kotturpuram!”
He studied me for a moment, and adjusted his umbrella. “How will you go there?” he asked. I revved up the vehicle in response. My headlights were on; I was ready.
He pointed at the road and said: “When you take a left here, and go 200 metres, you will find that the road is flooded. Two feet water. Your scooter will not go.”
As rain streaked down my glasses, my heart still throbbed with determination. My desire to help was, however, logistically challenged. How will I go? I didn’t want to lose the scooter in a puddle. And I still didn’t know how to help people.
“Can I not help people then?” I asked the watchman.
“I’m sorry, sir,” he said. “You cannot. Please go back home.”
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