As a little girl, you loved to sit by the window side, watching the rain falling. You grew up to it feeling cosy; listening to the rustling sounds of raindrops falling incessantly on the tin tops, you slowly fell asleep. You fantasized. Someday, you would dance your heart out, in your brightest chiffon saree draped in Bollywood style, with the man straight out of your dreams. A salsa, or a tango, or at the most a romantic poem would have been your companion. But not any longer. Rather, you felt at home, watching the greens turn wet and the petals glisten with dew drops. Sitting in your verandah, sipping your hot cup of coffee, hearing all the birds chirping and the wind whistling, you forgot all your worries.
Fast forward to today’s bizarre world. Nowadays, if it’s scorching heat, you scream for rain, and when it rains, my state drowns.
Rains and floods no longer remain a natural calamity as you find man-made floods on the rise, thanks to our poor habits and corroding etiquette. You can write a thesis, form a hypothesis, make a draft, or pour in funds -only to discover that each time, the crisis turns greater, and the danger looms larger than the last year.
How naive it was of me, when I dreamt of splashing waters and letting myself feel the rain, when someone, probably a few kilometres away, was struggling with an ounce of drinking water or some morsel of grains or a shelter to cover themselves! How many had been diseased? How many died? Or, killed? Do we get the real statistics? Do we?
Battering rains don’t just wash away your belongings, it takes away a part of you, your dreams.
The little boy whose books have been crushed, the young writer whose manuscripts got washed, the aspiring IAS whose notes were torn apart, the shy widow whose secret love letters – her only treasure – got lost or the mother whose son got drowned or the father who jumped into the water in search of food, never to be found again – are the ones who would never again be fearless of raging water. Did I not tell you about the grandmother whose medicines got wet, the school topper whose certificates sailed away, or the pregnant mother who couldn’t feel her baby inside anymore? Imagine the plight of a board examinee who couldn’t get his results or couldn’t fill up admission forms at his college of choice. He simply lost a year, just like that.
One day, the rains would desert us and the land would be arid. Paddy fields will be ploughed and people would get back to the broken houses they once called their home. Perhaps, they would try building it once again. But who can heal those dark, gloomy days, when they didn’t know whether it was day or night? How helpless would be the son who has a flight ticket to buy and visit his parents but there are no take-offs to the city? How guilt-struck would the daughter be since she was supposed to stay at her native village for a month but now there are no roads connected to it to even make an approach?
I don’t have solutions, I don’t have suggestions. I feel like shouting, screaming, crying, just like you.
When you go to flood-hit areas for health camps and monitor the pressure, sugar or pulse of the suffering people, you realise that you can cure the disease but never the crippled time.
It really hurts. They say time heals, but trust me, rains never spare anyone. Nor are your times returned.
What remains are your memories – and they are not the good ones. Only those who have lived a day in water, watching their family suffer from the pangs of hunger and distress, struggling for a breath of air, panting in fear of death, would know how much and how far excessive rains can hurt.
None else.
By Dr Nirza Saikia
Dr Nirza Saikia, Obstetrician and Gynaecologist, is currently working at Digboi Civil hospital. Also a Rotarian, she has served as Secretary and Editor Editor. Her areas of interest are to ensure health care facilities at remote areas, writing and traveling. She is reachable at: nirzasaikia@gmail.com
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