BLOW BY BLOW ACCOUNT
CYCLONE
11 October 2014
The
wind had started fanning anxiety gently a day prior to the cyclone that was heading
towards the East Coast. The intermittent burst of gust that subsided and rose
again reminded me of labour pains. I recalled bracing for a similar situation
last year—securing windows, putting away garden chairs, and stocking up candles
in anticipation of the storm. Cyclone Phailin (that hit Odisha instead, exactly a year ago) turned out to be a damp squib—no gales or gusts of wind, only suffocating
stillness. Cyclones, originating in the Bay of Bengal, are an annual feature on the East Coast,
but none had touched Visakhapatnam since 1890. They invariably altered course and made
landfall either north of Andhra Pradesh and/or into Odisha or south towards Tamil Nadu. A
sense of déjà vu prevailed this time too.
12 October
Sunday morning
There
were announcements and advisories prohibiting people to step out of their homes
from 7 a.m. onwards. At 9 a.m. Hudhud began fluttering. Winds picked up and
were soon accompanied by rains. Being on the first floor, I was under the
impression that we would be safe from water ingress. How wrong I was! Rain
water started seeping in from underneath the doors and windows and soon a part
of our living room and kitchen began flooding. In the initial enthusiasm I got
after the water with vengeance, proud of my achievement of beating it at the
game. Three hours of lashing winds and rains had us holed up in my son’s room
which was on the leeward side of the wind. The flood inside our home had won.
The bolted windows seemed vulnerable and we started tying them up for additional
backup. India Meteorology Department had predicted that landfall would be anytime 9 – 12.
Not aware of such things we expected that the cyclone would hit hardest when
‘landfall’ takes place.
Sunday noon
But
by 12 o'clock it was all over. People heaved a sigh of relief, got out of their
houses, exchanged notes, surveyed the damage (few trees had toppled), and set about clearing the water
inside their homes. I remember thinking, ‘it wasn't that bad after all’.
And
then—at 2 p.m.—the fury unleashed. Suddenly, a stray gust of wind came rushing
in and before we could comprehend what was happening it attained ferocity and
we were in the eye of the storm. The tandav
that began then went on unabated for the next ten hours. Windows rattled, glass
panes smashed, awnings went flying through air like missiles, roof tiles were
flung about and onto cars parked outside; the wind itself, howled and whistled,
moaned and groaned. I have never experienced a cyclone before but a sixth sense told me that the wind speed must be 200 kph. I learnt later that the
gusts measured 220! This time the winds came from the opposite direction and we
sat huddled in our bedroom, waiting for it to end, hoping and praying that the
roof over our heads stayed put. It dawned on us then that landfall was the lull
before the storm!
Those
ten hours can be best described by Rachel Carson’s portrayal of formation of oceans
in her seminal book, The Sea around us: “As soon as the earth’s crust began to
cool the rains began to fall. Never have there been such rains since that time.
They fell continuously, day and night… They poured into the waiting ocean
basins, or falling upon the continental masses, drained away to become sea.”
Only this did not feel like a beginning, but the end of the World!
AFTERMATH
Stressed
out by the suspense and with nothing to do but wait it out in the darkness that
had enveloped us we drifted into a drowse. By the time we woke up the next morning the wind
had died down. The scene outside was overwhelming. Everything around us lay in
shambles. Electric poles and mobile towers had keeled over, so had lamp-posts. All
around us we could see buildings—naked and exposed—which until now had been cloaked in green cover. Trees were razed to ground, some bent and broken—the
winds had shorn them of their foliage. Even the low-lying shrubs and hills
looked bald. It was exactly what a newspaper described it: a war zone. But
what struck me most was the silence. ‘Sannata’ as the Hindi word describes it aptly.
There
was no electricity, no water, no fuel, and essential items such as milk and
bread and Maggi (some success story this) dried up instantly. We would have to
rely on our larder with its provisions and dry foodstuff for the next few days.
Mercifully, we still had the cooking gas.
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| Roof tiles and awnings blown off |
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| Only sticks and twigs |
The
first lesson I learnt in this natural disaster was the importance of water and
its indispensability. We could live without electricity, sweltering in the
heat, but it was unimaginable to go on without water. On the first day, post-cyclone,
my son scooped mugs full of rainwater—collected on the terrace—into the overhead
tank. We did not have the luxury of waiting for clean water. With no fresh
water flowing through taps we were back to basics—to buckets and cans.
Somewhere,
a source of water was discovered (we were told that gravity aided its flow at that water point) which was tapped by all. Navy’s is a
hierarchical structure, but for once you found everyone standing in line for
water with no privilege for rank or position. The second lesson: Crisis such as this can be a great leveller.
If you can't have water, drink coke; if you can't have coke, drink champagne. That was the situation in many of our homes. The bar was choc-a-bloc and there
was no dearth of good company after sun down!
PEOPLE
I
have seen natural disasters played out on television news and what struck me
odd was how people went about salvaging their possessions. I would wonder how
could anyone think of something so trivial as picking up meagre items from debris after
such life-threatening calamity; do possessions matter more than one’s life? But
now I realize that it is when you can hold onto the most inconsequential or
smallest thing in life, find comfort in it, you feel ‘alive’.
We
were lucky: we had few broken windows, a damaged washing machine, dish antenna
beyond repair, and some soaked-to-bones wooden furniture, books, clothes and
mattresses. We did not have the hurricane pass through our living room stranding us in the bedroom and severing access to the kitchen like our neighbours! We were spared the ordeal of holding onto entrance doors for dear life. People
had their cars smashed, air conditioners sucked out, garage gates gouged out, front doors coming off their hinges, grilled windows
detaching from their frames, glass panes shattering sending shards into the
house, rooftop water cisterns and solar panels blown off. Even more unfortunate were the
denizens of Yarada village from where come our domestic helpers and security
guards. Their entire rations of rice and modest belongings rotted in water as
they did not have a roof left over their heads.
True
to the military motto of ‘Service before Self’, the Indian Navy jumped headlong into
relief and rescue work in town, in setting up community kitchens for Vizagites,
and getting electricity and airport services operational. In the absence of menfolk,
in Dolphin Hill—a naval enclave of more than 1000 families, women
soldiered on regardless. Mothers with children in tow were seen ferrying water
bucket by bucket on Scooty from a central water point. This while being the 'handymen', tackling ‘cleanship’
of home and neighbourhood, and providing food for the family—some with babies, small children, and aging parents.
Not the ones to be cornered or pinned down, the ladies also found an innovative pastime to while away the gloomy evenings: spontaneous tea parties by candlelight extending right up to dinner time.
A
fantastic symbiotic relationship surfaced between the DH community and the Yarada denizens that saw each other get on to their feet quicker than would have been
possible otherwise.
HILL
On
Dolphin Hill, we were cut off from the outside world. Of course, we had our
parent service—the Indian Navy to look after us. But for all practical purposes
we were quarantined. The entire 10-km stretch from our residences to the main
gate at the base of the hill was unrecognisable. Hillsides had eroded and trees
had blocked the roads at every bend. With roads carved out of hills to make way
for this residential colony there was already threat of landslides; this will
only get worse come summer of 2015.
For
a day, the fallen trees remained green but soon the landscape has started
resembling a ravaged savannah. With the tree cover gone, the sun bears down
harsh and the glare is unbearable. The dry bush poses a fresh hazard: that of
forest fire. Fireworks have been banned this Diwali; not a bad thing at all, I
would say.
We
now stare into smoggy winters and sultry summers. What horrors of climate
calamities wait ahead, no one knows. Some suspect that cyclonic disturbances
will only rise with the rise in temperature and absence of carbon sinks. The
industrial pollutants now have no buffer and we are all the more at the mercy
of greenhouse gases and coal dust.
It
is ironical that in all these years Vizag was shielded from cyclones by this
very Dolphin (Nose) Hill!
What
saved us from Hudhud’s wrath as we were holed up in our bedroom was the ficus
right outside the window. It had spread indiscriminately like a giant darkening
my room but providing privacy. That day it bore the onslaught throughout—
twisting, turning, contorting, and protesting; not a leaf was left on its dense
crown. It stood its ground and kept our windows on.
A
similar feat was enacted by the coconut trees outside the living room windows. The twin palms had blocked my bayview, earlier. If
it were not for them, I would have a brilliant view of the bay from the low-lying
windows from the luxury of my couch. This day they took the lashing, swayed this way and that, but did not
yield.
The
ficus and the coconut—both of Indian nativity and antiquity—had saved the day
for us. Ironically, I now get an uninterrupted view of the Bay (it looks forlorn) from my living room
window and the patio, but I miss the trees. On DH, trees survived due to their flexibility as they are of
relatively recent vintage, but the veterans of Naval Park (some more than 50 years old) at the base of the hill were uprooted
viciously.
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| BEFORE: Ficus outside my bedroom window |
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| AFTER: Not a single leaf left |
The
biggest casualty of this cyclone was the trees. Vizag has lost 80% of its green
cover according to an estimate. I feel a tremendous sense of bereavement at this loss. I hope people realise that Vizag’s trees were sacrificed in the
process of protecting the buildings and the people. But now the city lies
defenceless. It will be years before the green lungs emerge robust enough to
protect us from the industrial pollution that is Vizag’s bane. The hill took pride in being a 'silence zone', but now noise pollution is making itself heard. Without trees as shock absorbers, I am suddenly more aware of clattering vehicles and braking buses.
Artificial
plantation, at best, has been a controversial issue. Usually, exotics such as
copperpod or eucalyptus are preferred for swift greening results but their
roots are not strong and they are water guzzlers. It is the native banyans,
neem, mangoes and coconut that are good for the soil and the habitat.
Naturalist M. Krishnan believed that afforestation was not necessarily a good idea;
a denuded forest or hillside is best left to its own devices for it to regenerate
to its original vegetation. It is not trees alone, but even shrubs and scrub that hold soil together and prevent erosion.
Given
the circumstances I am not sure what the best solution is. But it is heartening
to see that most of the standing trees have started sprouting leaves. The same
spirit of resilience is evident among men and women who have risen up to the task
of rebuilding their lives.
In
the aftermath, bird calls fell conspicuously silent, but their presence is being
felt like never before. A plum-headed parakeet strayed from its flock and was
walking dazed under the staircase. A young bunting—or was it a juvenile munia—wandered
into our verandah flapping exhausted, seemingly, after a long flight. A mynah
was curiously examining her regular shrub trying to assess the damage. “What were
the birds trying to salvage?” I wondered.
The
ficus outside my window had been home to two pairs of spotted owlets. Now there
are only three and they have shifted camp to a thicket by the compound wall. In
the harsh daylight, in the absence of natural shade, the pixies take refuge in
a hollow pipe embedded in the wall. Territorial and spunky, they have been
shooing away crow pheasants and treepies—birds twice their size—from their territory with a belligerence that belies their size.
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| BEFORE: Spotted owlet on ficus |
.JPG) |
| AFTER: Shifted base to a nearby thicket |
Bluejays,
shrikes, shikras, treepies and even the usually skulking coucals can be seen perched atop
tree skeletons. I saw a paradise flycatcher wander about openly which is a rare sight indeed. Like insects
and rodents, they have been flushed out of their habitats. It is ironical, but
I have photographed more birds in the last ten days than what I have seen in the
past one and a half year of my birdwatching here!
With
no place to hide they are exposed, but they also seem to be more trusting of
humans now. After trees, they were the hardest hit in the Hudhud havoc.
Newspaper reports tell us that nearly 30,000 birds perished in that gale. Even
more ironic is the fact that Hudhud, the ogre that preyed on the birds, was named after
a gentle, hoopoe-like bird !
When
it returns it is the incessant chattering of the mynahs that breaks the spell
of doom first, reassuring us. The chirp, chip, and caw of the birds ring out
like a balm.
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| SHIKRA |
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| RUFOUS TREEPIE |
LIFE AFTER…
The
other comforting sound after the stunning silence was that of hack-saw cutting
fallen trees and the voices of men at work. All of us chipped in with shramdan in
clearing the avenues and public spaces. It was a humbling and numbing
experience. Gandhiji’s words came to mind: “Intellectual work is important and
has an undoubted place in the scheme of life. But what I insist on is the
necessity of physical labour. No man, I claim, ought to be free from that
obligation. It will serve to improve even the quality of his intellectual
output.” Physical labour of this kind has been missing from our lives in excessive
pursuit of an intellectual path.
Normal
life as we knew it seems distant. No walk, no run, no gym, and no swim—there is
simply no time; even the trail and pool are not open for these activities
anymore. More time is spent in doing household chores. I am relearning the art
of cooking fresh meals in view of shortage of provisions and absence of
refrigeration.
Clean
potable water has become a luxury. We have to filter and boil water for
drinking and cooking; for other household jobs we manage with a mucky, smelly
cocktail. Water now is conserved like never before. Milk is still rationed and
so is electricity. No television, no washing machine, no air conditioners, and
no computer or cell phone connectivity. I, for one (can't say the same of my
family), do not miss electricity as much as I miss the sense of security of life. We have a roof over our heads, we survived, but something changed forever
that day.
Day
after day, we wake up despondent to a treeless existence at the mercy of the
elements. We have to deal with new menace in the form of rats and stray monkeys. DH
has had civet cats, porcupines, monitor lizards, and mongoose, but no monkeys. Wildlife
from other wilderness areas of the city and outskirts has taken a hit and animals that survived would naturally be looking for ‘greener’ pastures. Snake-bites
are on the rise, we hear. Snakes too are bound to wander about listlessly. In the event snakebite is a real danger, but I fear for their safety more. Butterflies have all but vanished. DH's biodiversity has taken a beating.
And
yet, in a strange sense, I feel privileged to have been in the eye of the
storm. I felt that Nature had honoured me by showing its ‘other’ side. Till
now, I had been basking in its beauty and glory, now it let me into its fury.
HUDHUD – THE METEOROLOGICAL
PHENOMENON
Newspaper
reports proclaim Hudhud to be the first urban cyclone disaster. Given that tropical cyclones originate in the Bay of Bengal regularly and that East Coast falls in the line of its ire every year, Vizag has
surprisingly escaped unscathed for nearly 125 years! The city’s unique
topography and the feature of Dolphin Nose Hill are touted to be reasons for this.
The
fall of the pressure at the centre of this ‘very severe cyclone’ (Category 4
Hurricane) was 950 millibar. Seamen tell us that, at sea, when the barometer starts
showing a dip below 1000 their hearts start racing. They know that—to use a Conradian phrase—"uncommonly dirty
weather" is round the corner.
During
the cyclonic winds, I recall a moment when suddenly out of the blue, the rough
weather—lashing winds and rain—cleared and a shaft of pure sunlight streamed
through. It seemed unnatural and out of place, almost surreal... some sort of
divine intervention. But in technical terms it was nothing as fancy. This was
literally the eye. Wikipedia tells me, in strong tropical
cyclones, the eye is characterized by light winds and clear skies, surrounded
on all sides by a towering, symmetric eyewall. The eye of Hudhud was narrow, approximately
20 kms, which is another indication of the severity of the storm. I wouldn't have dared to peek outside to check the cylindrical eyewall!
BEFORE AND AFTER PHOTOGRAPHS
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| A spotted owlet seeks shade from the sun |
ALL PHOTOGRAPHS IN THIS BLOG AND WEBSITE ARE THE AUTHOR'S ORIGINAL WORK/COPYRIGHT.
