The Flood Encounter
Chennai, 1st December 2015
It was a normal Tuesday afternoon. The sky was overcast. The ETA bird seemed upset. The air-hostess promised showers in Chennai. But nothing could beat my inner happiness, the feeling of returning home. I was reading a romance, and no, it was not ‘The French Encounter’ by Cécile Rischmann. My last copy got sold out on the way to France, remember?
The excitement of coming home wouldn’t leave me. I could barely wait at the immigration counter so impatient was I to step into my hometown. The officer gave my husband a glance while going through his documents and I told her with a big smile, “My husband.” She smiled back and waved us away.
I spotted a row of counters promising all kinds of luxurious transport. Before I could open my mouth, the man pointed me in the direction of the next counter. I thought to myself that he’s probably seen our luggage and decided we needed a bigger car and he didn’t have one. By then, I was beginning to realize that something was not right. There wasn’t a soul in any of those counters. I looked at my husband and he looked at me with his eyebrows raised.
For the first time I didn’t organize an airport pick-up from our usual agency, the reason being that my mobile number was deactivated (courtesy Airtel), and I didn’t want to risk wasting time looking for the driver.
“Why isn’t there anyone at the counters?” I asked the only man who was at his counter and didn’t have a car. He looked at me and scratched his head.
“Lunch, Madam.”
“At 4.00?” I asked in astonishment, and glanced at my husband. “And I thought only the French had long lunch breaks.” He didn’t smile. I turned back to the man at the counter, who by now felt he’d done more than enough for this irritating lady, and disappeared.
“So what do we do now?” My husband asked, seeming rather worried. Being an organized person, he hates confusion.
“I’m sure there’s a way out.” I soothed.
The rain beat in fury. The sound of crashing thunder told us it wasn’t a shower, it was a downpour. We trudged out slightly defeated. All of a sudden, a group of taxi drivers descended on us — correction — on my husband. They didn’t give me a thought.
Negotiation was in full blast. Discussions were at its peak. Between them they decided the price, and woe to the driver who quoted a reasonable one. My husband was convinced. The deal was struck and about to be sealed. I chirped in.
“Now look here,” I said in Tamil, and prayed no Tamil pundit was nearby; he’d have died of depression. “I’m from Chennai, and don’t you think I don’t know the tariff. Now be reasonable.” I quoted 2000. They looked at me with such dismay. But I stood my ground knowing that it costs 1100 for an airport drop to my residence in an Innova. And these guys had tiny vehicles, and whether we were going to arrive at our destination was another preoccupation.
“Are you sure our luggage will go in?” I asked as if the matter was settled. The driver became indignant and proposed to show me. One case was placed vertical and the other horizontal. “And where do we sit?”
Another quick adjustment was made. My husband looked very troubled as he got in. ‘I think we should have waited and taken a bigger car, chérie.”
“Don’t underestimate a small car, Jean. This driver looks like he’ll zoom through the Tsunami.” I joked. But my heart was thundering. What if the car stops midway in these floods? What if we are forced to stand in the middle of the road with our luggage at hand? I began the litany. My lips were moving silently as I didn’t want to transmit my fear to my husband who was looking out of the window, frowning fiercely.
“Keep to the right.” He told the driver who was trying to outmaneuver a heavy vehicle and got our car drenched in the process. I repeated the instruction in Tamil. The driver nodded and went about doing the same thing again.
“Tell him the next time he does it he will not get paid.”
The driver didn’t need a translation. The stubborn action was nipped. Waves kissed the vehicle, caressed the bumper, and guaranteed a hug if permitted. The driver smiled and crawled through the waves successfully. We were just about to congratulate him when he did a sudden turn and entered a small narrow lane.
From street to street, blockade to blockade, round and round, with no way of coming out.
“Why did he get into the streets?” My husband asked. I looked at the driver and posed the same question as I was curious too. Why would anyone want to get into the streets in a downpour? The roads are by itself a challenge, not knowing whether we are about to travel into ditches, drains, potholes, manholes, meet an electric cable, get electrocuted . . .
“Madam, if we go on road, big problem.” He swung his head around to tell me and descended into a ditch, pulled himself out, and continued to talk as if nothing had happened. “Because I know the streets I got you so far. Better remember it when you pay me.”
If we’re alive to pay you. I was thinking to myself.
My husband, by this time, had figured out where we were and rapped out instructions to the driver. The driver, unable to hide his disbelief, turned around to ask me if he could take Sir on his word. I told him that if he continued to turn around and talk to me, we might not live to find out.
There was no further discussion after that. The driver, God bless him, brought us safely home. My husband flipped out his wallet and sent him off with a happy smile.
As we turned to enter, we sank into a pool in front of our gate. Everything seemed suddenly dark and eerie. I looked at my husband. He looked at me.
“I’ll call for help.” I said, and fetched my mobile from my handbag. And then I paled, remembering my mobile number was deactivated.
Hello Chennai!
It was a normal Tuesday afternoon. The sky was overcast. The ETA bird seemed upset. The air-hostess promised showers in Chennai. But nothing could beat my inner happiness, the feeling of returning home. I was reading a romance, and no, it was not ‘The French Encounter’ by Cécile Rischmann. My last copy got sold out on the way to France, remember?
The excitement of coming home wouldn’t leave me. I could barely wait at the immigration counter so impatient was I to step into my hometown. The officer gave my husband a glance while going through his documents and I told her with a big smile, “My husband.” She smiled back and waved us away.
I spotted a row of counters promising all kinds of luxurious transport. Before I could open my mouth, the man pointed me in the direction of the next counter. I thought to myself that he’s probably seen our luggage and decided we needed a bigger car and he didn’t have one. By then, I was beginning to realize that something was not right. There wasn’t a soul in any of those counters. I looked at my husband and he looked at me with his eyebrows raised.
For the first time I didn’t organize an airport pick-up from our usual agency, the reason being that my mobile number was deactivated (courtesy Airtel), and I didn’t want to risk wasting time looking for the driver.
“Why isn’t there anyone at the counters?” I asked the only man who was at his counter and didn’t have a car. He looked at me and scratched his head.
“Lunch, Madam.”
“At 4.00?” I asked in astonishment, and glanced at my husband. “And I thought only the French had long lunch breaks.” He didn’t smile. I turned back to the man at the counter, who by now felt he’d done more than enough for this irritating lady, and disappeared.
“So what do we do now?” My husband asked, seeming rather worried. Being an organized person, he hates confusion.
“I’m sure there’s a way out.” I soothed.
The rain beat in fury. The sound of crashing thunder told us it wasn’t a shower, it was a downpour. We trudged out slightly defeated. All of a sudden, a group of taxi drivers descended on us — correction — on my husband. They didn’t give me a thought.
Negotiation was in full blast. Discussions were at its peak. Between them they decided the price, and woe to the driver who quoted a reasonable one. My husband was convinced. The deal was struck and about to be sealed. I chirped in.
“Now look here,” I said in Tamil, and prayed no Tamil pundit was nearby; he’d have died of depression. “I’m from Chennai, and don’t you think I don’t know the tariff. Now be reasonable.” I quoted 2000. They looked at me with such dismay. But I stood my ground knowing that it costs 1100 for an airport drop to my residence in an Innova. And these guys had tiny vehicles, and whether we were going to arrive at our destination was another preoccupation.
“Are you sure our luggage will go in?” I asked as if the matter was settled. The driver became indignant and proposed to show me. One case was placed vertical and the other horizontal. “And where do we sit?”
Another quick adjustment was made. My husband looked very troubled as he got in. ‘I think we should have waited and taken a bigger car, chérie.”
“Don’t underestimate a small car, Jean. This driver looks like he’ll zoom through the Tsunami.” I joked. But my heart was thundering. What if the car stops midway in these floods? What if we are forced to stand in the middle of the road with our luggage at hand? I began the litany. My lips were moving silently as I didn’t want to transmit my fear to my husband who was looking out of the window, frowning fiercely.
“Keep to the right.” He told the driver who was trying to outmaneuver a heavy vehicle and got our car drenched in the process. I repeated the instruction in Tamil. The driver nodded and went about doing the same thing again.
“Tell him the next time he does it he will not get paid.”
The driver didn’t need a translation. The stubborn action was nipped. Waves kissed the vehicle, caressed the bumper, and guaranteed a hug if permitted. The driver smiled and crawled through the waves successfully. We were just about to congratulate him when he did a sudden turn and entered a small narrow lane.
From street to street, blockade to blockade, round and round, with no way of coming out.
“Why did he get into the streets?” My husband asked. I looked at the driver and posed the same question as I was curious too. Why would anyone want to get into the streets in a downpour? The roads are by itself a challenge, not knowing whether we are about to travel into ditches, drains, potholes, manholes, meet an electric cable, get electrocuted . . .
“Madam, if we go on road, big problem.” He swung his head around to tell me and descended into a ditch, pulled himself out, and continued to talk as if nothing had happened. “Because I know the streets I got you so far. Better remember it when you pay me.”
If we’re alive to pay you. I was thinking to myself.
My husband, by this time, had figured out where we were and rapped out instructions to the driver. The driver, unable to hide his disbelief, turned around to ask me if he could take Sir on his word. I told him that if he continued to turn around and talk to me, we might not live to find out.
There was no further discussion after that. The driver, God bless him, brought us safely home. My husband flipped out his wallet and sent him off with a happy smile.
As we turned to enter, we sank into a pool in front of our gate. Everything seemed suddenly dark and eerie. I looked at my husband. He looked at me.
“I’ll call for help.” I said, and fetched my mobile from my handbag. And then I paled, remembering my mobile number was deactivated.
Hello Chennai!
No comments have been added yet.
