It’s been nearly three weeks two weeks and four days after those terrible floods and landslides. By the time you read this, most likely on Monday or something, it might even be three. The “big rains” have now ceased and the monsoons have taken over. People have moved on in life, Muhammad Ali died at the age of 74, an armoury blew up some place close to home and caused massive fireworks in the skies, newer “news” has happened.

The flood victims too have moved “on” to their old homes. Most washed away by mud and other loathsome things with dead fish and rats floating about the place. There is only little left besides themselves, the possessions they took along with them and the ones unharmed as a result of having been left on a slab or second floor that can be saved.

Last week I drove to my Grandmother’s place to drop off some stuff. There is an unsustainable situation in the house as a result of having a few vehicles in the house, but at times like this, small vehicles are great for transport and deliveries I feel.

On my way to Mummy’s (I call my Grandmother “Mummy”) all I saw was rubble. Piles and piles of rubble. Clean roads, most likely washed away by the flood, but clean, yet rubble. Not just any rubble either, but possessions of rubble. Mattresses. Furniture. Beds. Cushions. Rubble that cannot be replaced as easily as buying a few groceries off the supermarket. Just piles of it, neatly stacked in the corners of the road every five to fifteen feet. What do they live with now, if most or all of what they own have been stashed against the sides of the road? 

Then the lorries collecting these rubble. A line of lorries parked on the side of the road one behind the other, filling up the back of their vehicles with these piles of rubble. That’s all I kept thinking of as I drove to Mummy’s: rubble, rubble, rubble. 

For those who saw (or went to see)

the flood.

While multiple reports and rescue missions warned everyone on how people should stay away from the flood, something inside me asked how it would’ve been had I not “seen” the flood when waiting to get my grandparents out.

It’s something that I am still unable to explain nearly three weeks after but those who saw knew. Those who saw felt. Those who saw realised what was at stake and what we lost. Those who saw also took selfies, but that’s a conversation for another time.

I’m glad I saw what I did. While a lot of what was planned and expected did not turn out as it was supposed to, it did provoke within me a need to do something about what’s happening. And trust me when I tell you that such needs have not arisen before.

But then, part of me wishes that I did not see what I did. Because once you did, there is no going back really. There is no break from unseeing what you saw and that leaves you a little broken inside every time you buy something new or spend on something you shouldn’t because then you wonder on how that money could’ve benefited someone else instead.

The rains are yet to leave us. I will soon write on what’s in my handbag and carry-on bag, but until such times, #ThinkSunny

❤