Scenes of the submerged state of Kerala, a bitter-gourd shaped irregular landmass nestled at the south of India, prompted many people into action. Some donated money to relief funds; some folded their palms together and prayed. Others released sarcastic memes on social media. They said August 15 is supposed to be a dry day, proclaimed one. Another depicted the legendary creator of Kerala: Sage Parashurama.

I have heard this tale countless times; first when I was three, from my grandfather, who would act out the entire story, while I sat enraptured in his lap; and second, from the memes. This warrior- sage had searched for untarnished land to carry out his penance. Finding none, he had promptly whipped out his trusty blade and flung it into the ocean. An irregular land mass had risen out of the froth-filled waves- Kerala; the land of coconut trees; was born.

It seems to me like the sea was trying to claim back what it had lost aeons ago. Rains have rapidly eroded Kerala’s many homes and temples; flooded its tea estates- in what was said to be the worst monsoon the state has faced in half a century. Parashurama may have to fling his axe again, to bring back the land-slid areas, said the memes.

It started in early August. Until then, the monsoon had stuck to its usual schedule of irrigating paddy
fields and making puddles with gentle showers ; scarcely were they accompanied by thunder and
lightning. Children (including me) danced in the rain; cupped their hands to collect drops; stuck their tongues out to taste them, and clumsily folded squashed paper boats, to set afloat in little water channels. They eagerly awaited week long holidays, when they could drench themselves with water and glee.

But this time, rains slapped the soils of Kerala with savage fury. Livid liquid washed away languid loam; gullies and rills dotted the many graves of coconut trees; and homes slid down hills worn down by the storms. Kerala has been gifted with 44 rivers- their many-fingered tributaries a blessing during droughts- but now each had burst its banks, flooding cities with water and despair. Dam after dam was filled up; dam after dam was forced to release water to lower the potential catastrophe of a complete collapse. People were literally swept out of their homes; some sought refuge on higher ground, and some in heaven. Bungalows buckled, shacks shrunk and roads were wrecked by torrential masses of water. My father’s family was trapped in the terrace of their house for almost a whole week, due to the release of water from dams.

A red alert was issued in 13 of Kerala’s 14 districts on Independence Day. The word red gives you a clue about how grave the situation was. The Army arrived with helicopters and emergency rafts; herding denizens of affected districts to camps. This was a Herculean task in itself; a large part of the available transport had been cut off. Kerala’s buses, so long the bane of south-Indian traffic, were no longer operating. The biggest International Airport had ceased to function; as a result, many tourists were stranded. My family weren’t in town at the time; our flight almost got cancelled. And the roads resembled Venetian canals more than roads themselves; albeit filled with inflatable boats instead of elegant gondolas. In addition to that, many evacuees were unenthusiastic about living away from known territory. They feared the lack of food in evacuation centers.

Disaster appeals to human sympathy instantly. It’s because we know that nature, and nature’s wrath, is something universal. Nature does not discriminate. It lashes out blindly; here an earthquake, there a hurricane; one billionaire‘s 27-storey apartment complex flooded, one slum shelter washed away. A few weeks after the floods, typhoons took place in the Philippines. People sitting in front of their T.V sets were horrified by scenes of buried homes and collapsed roads; that horror made them reach for check books and PayPal apps. It’s because they were thinking: That could happen to me, and if it does, I don’t want others to turn their back. I’d need help.

What was I doing in the middle of this crisis? Well, mainly I was struggling to accept the situation.
Friends and relatives from all over the world called anxiously, asking , Are you okay? Do you need help?

My mother would patiently answer that , Yes, we were fine, our house wasn’t affected and Yes, it
indeed was a horrific calamity. For me, the whole thing seemed like a nightmare; terrifying, but with an element of fantasy. My school had closed early, due to the floods, but this spirit of goodwill didn’t last for long; teachers soon e-mailed us projects and assignments to complete. So my days consisted mainly of switching between homework and the news channel. Our district hadn’t been affected; we’d faced a brief spell of gale-force winds and sleet, but only for a night.

I may have been shell- shocked, but others certainly weren’t. Malayalis in Kerala, and those outside its borders, didn’t turn their backs on their people. Engineers established inventories for relief goods; chefs cooked meals for evacuees; doctors volunteered. Even children helped; little fingers deftly taping up cardboard boxes. My mother ran around town collecting things like bread and biscuits and tea to donate- I helped her; checking each item off our lengthy list. You have to understand; evacuees and escaped with nothing, albeit maybe a few legal documents. We had to provide everything- from toothbrushes to toilet paper. But no one hesitated, nor complained; a no-nonsense, lets-do-this sort of attitude had enveloped the state. Fishermen and politicians and soldiers worked side by side; wading through the debris and muck to rescue abandoned victims. The fact that they refused any compensation for their heroic actions shows that people can have generosity that greatly exceeds the capacity of their purses.

Onam is the festival of the Malayali New Year, and it usually falls in August (or September, according to the lunar calendar). It’s also usually celebrated with gusto all over Kerala. A disaster that struck at any time of the year was bad enough; but at Onam, it was doubly devastating. Schools and offices cancelled celebrations and donated the cash to relief funds. Our celebration was also decidedly low key; no new dresses this time (People out there are suffering! Grandma cried to my little sister And you want a new frock?) , no visits to relatives’ houses and absolutely no games! ( according to Grandma). There’s a saying in Malayalam- Even if it’s by selling grass fodder for cash, you must feast on Onam. So although we didn’t have traditional games and dances; we did feast , and so did evacuees. Chefs across Kerala had worked tirelessly so that they too could briefly enjoy the new year.

Slowly, but steadily, the flood waters began to recede; taking with them the earnings of many citizens.

They left behind chaos; and almost worse, the mud. When the water ultimately receded, a hard, clayey, crust of mud would remain; sticking stubbornly to all durable surfaces. An urgent scrubbing of walls and floors was what awaited many distressed inhabitants, like my grandmother. I wasn’t allowed to participate, for fear of any infection I could pick up, but my father did. He came back home in the evening, absolutely exhausted from sweeping and lifting furniture and washing out waste.

Things weren’t back to normal, not by a long shot, but the worst was over. My father’s cousins escaped the terrace; they were all safe, though they’d lost T.V’s and fridges and cupboards of clothes. School began again, and we had exams. Anyone who dared to complain was reminded about all the poor unlucky children who’d lost their schoolbooks. Unluckier ones’ schools had vanished, crumbled by the current and swallowed by the soil.

The rains have fled towards the north. But signs of the havoc they wrecked remain, and will remain for weeks to come. But it will take more than water to drown the hope of my community, and that's something I'll always be proud of.