Searching For Noah II

No network, systems down. My only information were rumours, floating like low hanging clouds. I walked towards the entrance, and stopped three young men, who I thought were airport personnel. They turned out to be customer care executives for Air Sahara. I have never flown Air Sahara; now I think I will. In more rain than I believed possible, inky darkness, water up to our knees, the three Samaritans helped me and my large bag, to the taxi stand outside. "Rs 1,500" one driver demanded. The others refused to go. "You'll get stuck on the airport road. Spend the night here," they warned. Later, I wondered at the elderly man who had asked for Rs 1,500 for a Rs 140 fare. Did he get his money? Did passengers take his word against common sense, and believe he would deliver them to their warm home and hot food and the arms of their loved ones? We walked on, heading towards the airport hotels. The lights were still out, every room booked. At The Orchid, the most expensive of the four hotels, the Samaritans told me my best bet would be to spend the night in the lobby.They shook my hand and left. Their clothes, which had been sharply ironed and warmly dry just an hour before, were soaked to their skin. There were no empty chairs. The lobby was a refugee camp. Twice told that no rooms were available, I slapped down my business card and demanded one. A minute later I was offered a single for Rs 10,000 a night. I looked for a chair. That evening, under the dimming lights of the lobby, we settled in for the night. Laces and ties were untied, moist pants rolled up, bodies crumpled like tired elastic on gilded sofas. Some spread their shawls on the tables, others opened their suitcases, changed their clothes and dried babies in the bathrooms. At 4.30 a.m. we were awakened from an uneasy sleep by an argument between a guest and three members of the staff. The man and his wife, who was six months pregnant, had come to The Orchid for a business meeting, but were, obviously, unable to return home. They had apparently been told, rather brusquely, to leave the coffee shop on the first floor where they had been resting. Once in the lobby, they were harangued by more staff. "Have some humanity," the man screamed. "You think we are here out of choice? We live in homes bigger than this hotel. Don't you dare keep moving me like I'm some sort of beggar." I wanted to say, "Hear, hear," and I did. Two men beside me said, "Calm down, young man." We were all awake now. The man returned to his wife in the coffee shop. The women behind me cursed him softly. "Why does he have to make a fuss? They are all working second shifts. They are so nice. In America, you think they would have let us stay here without paying hefty sums? Only in India." And I thought. Yes, they've been decent. They haven't shaved our heads and put chains on our legs, and made us sing for our supper. Then again, they haven't given us supper. Or a cup of tea. Even a glass of water. This is a catastrophe, and those who have the opportunity to help others in need should do so as freely as possible. Instead, for the free chairs we unwillingly occupied, we were stared down and sniffed at. Inside, I smiled. The majority of of "refugees" were from Mumbai. They had been dinner guests. What are the chances they would return to this receptacle of insensitive service and bad memories? I had spent the night in wet clothes. My pores exuded moisture; my mouth was dry. At dawn, the staff was looking restive. They went from table to chair to floorspace, saying, "You should leave now, before high tide at 8.30 a.m. The traffic has cleared, the water has receded. Go quickly, before it rains again." One manager whispered to his boss: "We have to take a stand. Otherwise they will never leave." The boss looked at the wet carpets, his harried staff; he glanced at the bawling babies and the foreigner who had laid out his sleeping bag at the entrance to the fine dining restaurant. He nodded his assent. Some smart survivors went to the rooftop restaurant for an aerial view. The runway was flooded. For miles, over turned buses and stranded cars and bumper to bumper traffic was visible. They came down and warned the rest of us not to move. At 8 a.m.I slunk alongside six stewardesses who had been provided with a hotel bus to go to the airport. None of the airlines had provided buses to or from the hotel, to their passengers. The hotel told no one about this bus either; but I've been a journalist long enough, and push my way through when needed. The stewardesses were perfectly made up after their night's beauty sleep in warm, lavish Rs 10,000 beds. I was not. Hair in a bun, clothes crumpled like old wrapping paper, expression ferocious. My bag was by my side. If need be, I would use its large silver padlock to beat anyone who objected to my presence. I had given up on Air Deccan and went to the Indian Airlines Terminal. The electricity was on the blink, and the inner reaches were visible only by the light of unhappy eyes. Food was handed out. Water and biscuits and packets of crisps. At 11.00 a.m. a woman and her son discussed going home in their car. The woman saw me, and without skipping a beat, offered me a ride. The kindness of strangers continued to amaze me. A 40 minute ride took us 7 hours. In Juhu there were traffic jams caused by abandoned vehicles. Marutis, Ford Ikons, jeeps, empty buses floating in sewage, swimming bicycles, limp scooters. On either side, armies of men, women and children were walking to their homes in the distant suburbs or into town, barefoot. Water entered our car. I watched my sandals silently float. A strap broke, then another. Grass and soggy biscuits and bits of paper played between my toes. I saw no policemen, no ambulances, no official helpers. But I saw people who could have been home roaming the streets, walking from one car to another. They came with tea and chappatis and hot puris. They diverted traffic and helped overturn stranded cars. They offered assistance and assurance. Again I wondered. Why? Why, when you could be elsewhere, doing something else with someone else? Why, when you could be safe and dry, are you risking life and limb for me? You don't know me. When I'm safe, I will forget your face, and your kindness. Why? I reached at 5.30 p.m. I was home even as thousands others were lost or abandoned or had loved ones who were. It was hard to feel relieved. It was harder still to fathom the goodness of a people continuously at the receiving end of disaster and unrest. The inability of the state government to take control sickened me. The ability of the public to give, made me feel like I couldn't possibly, ever, leave after all.