COME RAIN OR SHINE
During cyclone week in India's Chennai, I was powerless—and thus "bookless"—for several days.
I landed in India’s Chennai in the wee hours of December 1. A day later, I decided that I must fly to the city of Coimbatore, come rain or shine, to meet my three aunts—”The Three Roses”—and my one “remaining” 96-year-old uncle from my late parents’ generation. I use the word “remaining” the way Indians often do when they talk about the people who still remain in their lives who once multiplied their joys, and, in some instances, er, their vexations, too.
On December 4, I was to fly to the city of Coimbatore on a budget airline called Indigo Airlines. The company’s motto, ironically indeed, is “Come Rain Or Shine.” I’m afraid that they must add “cyclone” to their tag line because, according to my late father’s chauffeur, Vinayagam, airplanes in India fly no matter what, come rain or shine or cyclone or hurricane or tornado. That’s precisely why at 6.45 AM on the morning of the horrific cyclone here on this gorgeous Coromandel Coast of India, I believed I was flying out of Chennai.
It turns out that we lost power in the wee hours of the day I was to fly out. By 5:02 AM, I had also received a text, in Tamil, from the local government warning us against venturing out since there may be downed electrical lines and trees and lord knows what else. Having seen that advisory, I brought it up with Vinayagam suggesting that we just cancel my trip, never mind a wasted flight ticket. But our Man Friday who knows something about everything, ceased and desisted, and told me to get ready for the trip.
“Flights and airports are not concerned about cyclones, YoungLadies. Just think how many international passengers will be stranded if that were so often the case!” Vinayagam said, picking up the car keys as he rolled my suitcase out of the house. Just because he piloted our car I’d begun to assume he was an authority on vehicles that plied the skies too. “You’re right man,” I said to him, “I guess visibility is not issue here anyway. Water shouldn’t matter for a flight.”
So he and I, the blind driver and the equally sightless passenger, rode on together, ready to battle Mother Nature’s weapons with one big ammunition of our own, our grey Maruti sedan. In minutes, as our Maruti Swift skirted Jeeva Park, it became a cruise liner approaching G. N. Chetty Road.
“But this is really no problem, YoungLadies,” Vinayagam said yet again, reassuring me that he was in control even as I gripped the seat in front of me. “Once we get to Mount Road, we’ll be flying to the airport. You’ll see.”
Water didn’t enter the boat, of course, but our progress happened at the pace of two feet per minute, as Vinayagam pressed clutch and brake or whatever ocean liners do to steer themselves in deep waters. We approached an overpass and, for a few minutes, all was well with the world until, seconds later, we approached a junction below us where an auto and a van seemed abandoned, two lone man-made islands in an ocean that seemed to stretch on for miles in a deserted no man’s land called Chennai, a city of 12 million people.
In fifteen minutes the two of us were back in the apartment, tail between our legs, where, once again, it was proven that man would always be powerless against the force of nature and, literally, powerless in the house, too. Thirty hours later, with the fury of Cyclone Michaung having abated, I did, in fact, fly out to Coimbatore to meet The Three Roses and that one remaining uncle.
As you can see, I’ve had a rather eventful week. I hope to catch up on some reading— between some more travel, of course—the following week. In the meanwhile, to know more about the things that skew my life during my travels in India, you may want to read this other newsletter where I tend to share many stories from my own life.