66th Day of Quarantine | 2nd Day of Amphan

We are no more fighting a pandemic alone.

The wholly mammoth of natural disaster has taken over us. Amphan they call it. Strange how the they find cute names for something so devilish.

As my phone stops buzzing, I wonder at moments like these.

So tell me Kashmir, how did you hold up? Were you breathing? Why do you say it was man who silenced your touristy hubbub?

….but roaring noises outside quickly bring me back to reality. As I look up from my window, I could only see the dark clouds of defeat that has loomed our horizon. As if only I existed in the moment, I see a night of deadly blur. I could see or what I imagined was a colossal sea wave from the north taking over us.

At age 8, I remember going through the pages of Mahabharat to find one picture that particularly demanded my attention. It was the night when Srikrishna was born and his father Vasudev who carried him in a basket was crossing the Yamuna river while the majestic Ashtnag with some 8 snake heads was protecting him from the incessant rain. As I continued looking up at the sky, I could only imagine a scene so dramatic.

Well just then the umpteenth lightning of the night struck, I shivered and got back to my weird habit of looking up for notifications in my phone.

I tried romanticizing a conversation with a special one, talked about rainy nights and steamy moments, but I was quickly reminded of my dying phone and almost dead network. As I mock prepare myself to bid adieu to my window panes, I could hear the gusty wind outside my window get stronger by the moment. As if a guy from the early 90s who would cat call a girl by whistling, I could hear similar whistling outside my window.

As the night unfurled, incessant rains and voracious winds followed reminding me of several scenic moments from film and rest as I imagine them to be.

My privilege however did allow me a good night sleep.

Privilege really holds a mirror to our face, Doesn’t it?

All the whining about not going out enough, not dining at the favorite restaurant, not listening to the favorite artists live, not getting nails done and eyelashes fixed?

Do we really hear ourselves when we whine?

As I prepare to sleep, I wonder at the night. All the hustle and crying about fixing the AC and this night leaves me asking for no fan even. Nature sure does wonder, while at some corner in the city someone says the same as they clean up the 13th bucket of water that flooded their living room.

Following morning at 7 my phone buzzed, a colleague’s roof is wrecked. A dozen texts followed. Ones who had very little or almost no access to internet recounting their horrors of the night but never failing to wish each other “Take Care” while fighting a battle in their own capacity.

As I look up for the news, my heart sank.

My beloved city of joy is ravaged beyond measure.

Once the liveliest streets of Calcutta ; Park Street is as stern as the burial ground, the bookers paradise College Street is under water, books worth 60 lacs are floating around. I could go on and on and the horrors of the night wouldn’t stop.

Flooded city, ripped electric wires, collapsed buildings, failed network. Several have lost their homes, several were electrocuted. The wilds of the Sundarbans are out in the open, local are rendered homeless. Somewhere in the Bangla border, 83,000 have lost their shelters, back in the bay 72+ had lost their lives.

As I go to the terrace to check on my AC compressor, I look up at the sky and wish for one last bout of rain to wash way the tears of the city and its people.

With every hour, more disturbing images surfaced and more I am reminded of the privilege that we inherit. Do we still have more complains? What can be your next possible excuse to diss your lifestyle?

Is it the roof on your head or the food on your plate?

hapless and helpless Kolkata ft. aftermath of amphan

As I write about this, my Bengali self desperately wants to write about how sentimentalists we Bengalis are. How we write about Rain and Cloud, Nature and Disaster, how we are mocked upon for “jol kabho” and how we “kabho” almost everything .

Well this time too we swallowed our pain and miseries. Absolutely no pat on the back required.

Sweetest part of India !! Ironic much ?

But here I would say we Calcuttans are sentimentalists for I have seen my non-Bengali friends shed more tears than I ever did.

[Speaking of friends, did you check up on friends from Calcutta? No brownie points for being kind]

As I sip on my evening tea, I hear my fellow roommates (read family) discuss Kalyug & Pralay . I could not stop but contemplate on how this year unfolded. From starting the year with riots to almost declaring World War III to the deadly virus and pandemic and now the super cyclone that wrecked my beautiful city. I wonder if the Mayans were right when they say their calendars ends on 31st October 2020. 99.99 % chances this can be wrong or either a conspiracy theory, but mind I tell, always inquisitive, always stupid.

But in all good faith, are we really in the endgame now? As I write this I wonder if I will see the sun tomorrow for life has never been more fragile?