Dr. Suma Balan, Prof., Dept. of Rheumatology, Amrita Institute of Medical Sciences, Kochi

On the 14th of August, I was returning home from work in Kochi and discussing how the dams were now closed and how, hopefully, the long, punishing spell of rain we had had would be behind us soon. After a hot, dry summer and water shortages, we were all overjoyed when the monsoons commenced ahead of schedule and with adequate strength. Then, in July, there was this period of heavy rainfall with sporadic flooding and trouble lasting for about 2 weeks. Even the Bharatapuzha, usually a trickle in a sand bed as seen from the windows of a train, was full and overflowing. We remarked on how the Idukki district was still getting heavy rains, and, as we spoke, the windshield grew hazy and within minutes a storm gathered with heavy rain that seemed incessant. Putting it down to the crossover effects from the depression in the Bay of Bengal, we reached home, dry and unworried. But that, the rain would not stop. It just continued relentlessly. That night my nephew, a young lawyer, was leaving for Delhi, from where he would be proceeding to Manali for trekking. We drove to the airport to drop him off, and all along it continued to rain. Yet we were concerned about the weather in Himachal Pradesh, cautioning him to be sensible and return early if the weather did not permit him the holiday he wanted. We got home and went to bed.

The next day, August 15th, it continued to pour; slowly, faces were turning grave. In addition to the PM’s speech, the local media were issuing alerts on dam capacities and the fullness of rivers. There was talk about opening the dam shutters again. We found out that the Kochi airport had closed down again due to water logging and that my nephew’s flight had been the last one to take off. A spate of landslides had begun setting in the Idukki and Wayanad hilly terrains. And slowly the death count was escalating. The next day, braving the weather, we drove our usual 16 km, only to work encountering a pool of water en route. Once at work, the situation was deteriorating fast. The Idukki dam had been set to release water, but it was not enough. Soon all 5 shutters of the Cheruthoni dam and Idamalayar, Bhootathankettu had been opened, and people living within 500 m of the Periyar River were asked to evacuate to safer environs. In a few hours, Aluva, on the banks of the Periyar, had started flooding. The same night, most parts of Aluva town flooded and my cousins and uncle, who just the previous day had reassured me that their area was not in danger, were forced to evacuate to Kochi, in the middle of the night. At work on the 16th, when AB Vajpayee passed away, we were increasingly aware of water levels rising in various parts of the state as the rain continued mercilessly. All elective services, OPDs, surgeries, and admissions were suspended. Parents of the medical students came quickly while roads were still open and took them away for an extended Onam break. A nearby friend’s daughter was studying in a residential coaching center in Pala, about 70 km south and inward toward the hilly district of Idukki with its peaks, rivers, and dams. They had been called to take the children home, as flooding was predicted. Sholayar dam was opened and Chalakudy town was flooded and so was my ancestral village at the same time. The huge hospital 5 km away was anticipating flooding, and they quickly and efficiently transported their patients to all the nearby less-affected hospitals, an operation that requires much praise. We got the PICU ventilated patients.

Driving home that evening from work on Thursday was a much more worrying affair, but water levels in Kochi were still not of significant concern. On Friday morning, I braved the road to go for my rounds. The situation in the hospital was of significant concern. With a landslide on the main highway near Palakkad, highways submerged following a massive rise in water levels in the river below. Ernakulam was getting isolated. To the east, north, and west, we were waterlocked in though the city itself was only beginning to see water levels rising. The railway tracks north of Kochi had also been flooded, and trains had stopped plying between Thrissur and Ernakulam. And Kochi airport was closed. Staff were unable to come in, food supplies were low and most hotels around the hospital had closed, with the staff, patients, and bystanders now dependant on food supplies within the hospital. By the afternoon of the 17th, water entered the lower floor of our hospital, and commendable efforts from many volunteers helped protect valuable equipment. The Navy, with their technology, got the electrical plant going and maintained power. In the areas around the hospital, water levels had risen significantly, requiring even apartment dwellers to move out to hotels or other areas, since the ground floors of apartments housed the electricity units and car parks, which were all flooded through.

Within the district, the local administration, under collectors and NGOs, quickly set up several relief camps in many areas for those evacuated and escaping from flood-affected areas. School and college buildings were mostly used and in certain areas places of worship—temples, mosques, and churches—opened their halls to anyone and everyone. There were many priorities all to be addressed at the same time

First of all, people had to be rescued. The expertise of the Navy and armed forces was available, but what was instantly available was limited. With road access, rail access milited and the airport closed, the only access to the southern flooded areas below Ernakulam was by road, from Trivandrum. Water levels had risen dramatically in the night in the southern districts of Chengannur, Aranmula, Pathanamthitta, etc. Excepting the northern corner of the state and southern tip below Kollam, a vast region of the state was almost simultaneously involved. In view of the rising water levels, rescues largely depended on boats. The fisherman voluntarily rose to the task and, paying for the fuel themselves, they set out on numerous rescue missions each day. They lifted, carried, encouraged, and rescued families, individuals, old young, babies, pregnant women and even pet dogs, goats, in the pouring rain—service with a smile. The armed forces did a sterling job with many heroic missions, like the tricky helicopter rescue of a woman in labor from her rooftop to the hospital in time. So, many offices became operational bases with telephones and social media coordinating rescue requests and camp requests. Good Samaritans were sprouting all over. The youngsters—college students, IT engineers, quickly formed teams, making lists, collecting resources and delivering them everywhere. Colonies like ours, not much affected, responded to requests; we coordinated cooking in our individual kitchens, packing individual breakfasts, lunch packets for the needs of a camp and delivered by coordinators. Suddenly, everyone wanted to help. With frantic buying both for personal storage (fearful hoarding) and for camp supplies, and with lack of delivery of fresh supplies due to being cut off by disaster, supermarkets ran out of supplies by the 17th in many places. And the rain was still going strong; doctors traveled to relief camps to treat the sick and distributing medicines. When I had gone for my rounds, I had two inpatients left—both were in the ICU and recovering. Both families’ houses were submerged. One little boy had his mother and grandmother staying in the hospital. His father had been rescued and was in a camp, and they had no contact, as his mobile charge had run out and he was himself involved in settling other members of the extended family. They remained in the hospital for 3 days before he was able to contact them. They had to make arrangements to take the child back to the only relative’s home that was still standing.

Finally, it was the Saturday morning—August 18th. Just like the previous day, we woke up to a very rainy start. The incessant rains had caused waterlogging outside my home too, and I was beginning to wonder when all this would finally get over. That afternoon, after 12 noon, there was a brief respite and for the first time I saw butterflies busily out and birdsongs erupting. Before the cautious weather report, I knew that the worst of the rains were over. And from then on, they trickled down.

But there was so much more to be done. More than 1.2 million people displaced from their homes across the state; several lakhs in 3724 relief camps across the state. A total of almost 500 deaths, initially following landslides and later by drowning. The state had received 164% rainfall in the month of August and 250% rainfall this monsoon. Eighty-one dams were opened, 35 for the first time, and 41 rivers were in spate. The previous major flood in Kerala was in 1924 (1099 in the Malayalam calendar), when the population in the state was far lower and there was only one dam.

Slowly, people began to return to their homes. The flooded rivers had left behind a dirty, smelly, blackish clayey caked mud that got into anything and everything and stained the walls. Wells were muddied, upholstery was drenched, mattresses were soaked; and the rains had invaded cupboards and the clothes within. It was inside electronic appliances and cars, which were found floating in odd places displaced by water. Live snakes emerged from the mud in the water, and insects abounded. A great number of domestic animals—cattle, pigs, goats, dogs, cats had drowned and homes had carcasses to dispose of.

House cleaning required water that was ironically in short supply as pumping stations had shut down their pumps, which were all submerged in water. People clubbed together in groups, with protective wear for cleaning, and pressure washes and went around cleaning places or hiring such groups to clean places. The mud was tenacious and difficult to get rid of off. A good number of personal belongings were destroyed and lost. Some places saw vandalism and theft, which was fortunately not very common. Cars had to be tested professionally and electronic appliances by their companies as well. In some areas, schools were submerged, books and files lost. Many school children had lost their uniforms and books when they returned, but the government was quick to replace these. Over 10,000 km of roads had been damaged and bridges needed repair.

For at least a week, the state merged in unity—united to the cause. While there were a few trying to exploit the situation with wrongful, harmful information, overall the togetherness and teamwork were a joy to behold. Then came the next phase of moving from relief to rehabilitation, mobilizing funds for rebuilding Kerala. As expected, with the life-threatening disaster now past, petty politics, divisiveness, and other evils started to penetrate into the woodwork. Many self-declared amateur environmentalists emerged from unlikely areas, many self-attested experts spreading misleading information. Onam happened a week later. It was a very sober Onam—no flower carpets, no markets and festive stalls, no fanfare. A week later, schools reopened, the roads were cleared, the airport commenced operations, and repairs slowly began. We resumed normal functioning in the hospital within a few days. In the weeks to come, as my follow-up patients returned, many had long tales to tell of experiences in relief camps, houses repaired, homes destroyed, and valuables lost. This has been a humbling experience in more ways than one—the force of nature, the powerlessness of humanity, the strength of unity, and the spirit of resilience.

Even the Neelakurinji flower, which carpets the Nilgiri Hills in a purple haze once in 12 years, decided to wait for the floods to cease and some normalcy to return before blooming on the hill ranges, and is currently brightly blooming across many areas in the disaster-struck Idukki district. As the official tourist campaign states, Kerala is open for visitors once again.

Please come and restart our economy.