As the longest day of each year dawns, we often go back in our minds to other interminable days in our lives. Most often, those are times when we have to struggle through an ordeal or learn to accept tragic news.
As youngsters, many decades ago, our first ordeal was a flood in our riverside hometown. It was monsoon time and it had been raining incessantly for some days, but we went as usual to our school on the banks of the river. Halfway through the day, however, the school authorities packed us into buses and sent us homeward. As we were herded out of our classrooms, we noticed that the level of the river had risen alarmingly.
Our home was on the other side of the river and while crossing over the bridge to get there, our eyes were drawn to the angry water beneath us. We were terrified and imagined the bridge giving way and all of us getting swept off, along with the furniture and other things that were swirling by.
The bus took a circuitous route and when we reached home, about 500 metres from the river, we saw that the water was approaching it, almost as if the river had changed course and decided to explore new territory. We raced indoors — and in the safety of our mother’s arms, learnt that the dam outside the city had burst and the river had swollen to unmanageable proportions.
For the next few hours, we made innumerable trips to the back door with Mother to check where the water had reached. The river had overflowed its banks, leapt across the road and then it started to fill the large open field behind our house. The field was a kind of trough, and as it filled with water, it began to resemble a lake. But that trough was able to take in a lot of water and curb the fury of the flood. It was no longer approaching us at breakneck speed. Instead, the water began to creep slowly into our garden, approaching the house like a thief, taking its time and building up the tension for us. Would the water cross the threshold or would it stop short of climbing into our home?
Our boxes were packed. Radio alerts and those 500 metres that separated us from the river had given us time to choose our most precious belongings and load them into the ‘escape’ vehicle that stood ready in the driveway to take us to safety. Mother picked her most expensive saris; we went with our favourite dresses and dolls. None of us thought that if we really had to abandon our home and everything in it to the ravaging water, we would surely not be able to spend the next few months clothed in our Sunday best!
Our vigil at the back door continued for what seemed like days — and then suddenly, we noticed that there was a water mark on the step where the water had been earlier. The water was receding! Our relief was boundless — but that day was not yet over. Rumours flew fast and furious. The other dam was in danger, we heard. If it gave way, the water level would rise again ...
There was no rest for anyone on that day — or in the days that followed, when the entire town had to pick up the pieces after the massive destruction to public and private property.
It was a trial by water for all of us. But, given that lives were not snuffed out by the dozen, as had been the case with the Beas tragedy recently, I think that we were lucky.
Cheryl Rao is a journalist based in India
