Khoon aur paani

In the last few days, we’ve discovered that it’s entirely possible to feel chilly in Chennai and to crave hot chocolate with a steaming plate of pakodas.

“Your first cyclone!” an aunt said. “See? No power supply, roads have knee-deep water, schools are closed, servants don’t show up, clothes don’t dry, trees land on houses and people fall sick. Oh, and be prepared, malaria usually follows.”

Grandparents, watching weather news briefs and Mumbai mayhem on television from 2,000 kilometers away, call and warn the humans not to go out. “Stay away from 5-star hotels especially. And make sure you don’t order Chinese food or salad in the rainy season,” says grandma. “You’re sure to fall sick.”

With no television and a suspended Internet connection (“What to do? Mazhai, saar,”) the humans learned of news reports the old-fashioned way, unfurling sensational headlines every morning with a side of cereal and coffee.

With the rain putting a damper on MP Kanimozhi’s ribbon-cutting and lamp-lighting ceremonies, the local newspaper filled its pages instead with photos of weary-looking Caucasians exiting the damaged hotels in Mumbai. Prominence was also accorded to a rambling eyewitness account by a Taj guest with such excellent communication skills that his own family was under the mistaken impression he was in Kolkata instead.

For local news coverage, mom had only to look outside the window to see the wind and rain compete with each other to put on a stupendous son et lumière show for three days running.

In between bouts of when-will-the-rain-stop-and-the-maid and cook-show-up, mom was consumed by housewifely woes of the washing not drying. Unannounced guests to our home would have been subjected to the family’s damp underwear spread on dining chairs, moist towels adorning the furniture and door handles decorated with hangers sporting wet T-shirts.

“I miss my clothes dryer,” lamented mom, recalling the sensation of warm clothes tumbling out with bits of face tissue still attached to them.

“There’s no power, Amma,” the kids brought her back to reality, causing her to sigh as she folded the once fluffy towels now reduced to the texture of a coarse loofah.

With no school and no electronic entertainment to fall back on, the kids whined away time by pouting and rapidly losing interest in mom’s when-I-was-growing-up-we-had-no-power-all-night-and-often-had-to-study-by-candlelight stories.

Luckily, a flooded house caused some distraction for the children, who ran back and forth delighted at the idea of a shallow pool in the dining room.

“How do we clean this mess?” panicked mom at the sight of floating computer cables and furniture legs standing in water. “See? This is why you should’ve cleared the drain when I first told you to,” she said, unmoved by the sight of her husband poking and prodding the drain in the terrace with a long stick in the pouring rain.

“Stop making a big deal out of everything,” said dad, equally unmoved by the sight of his wife standing in toe-deep water with her pants folded up, wielding a wooden broom.

Three hours and many wet towels later, the humans restored order to the house and mom wearily went to bed fully anticipating waking up on a floating bed the next morning.

“Do you think the house will flood again?” the children asked eagerly the following day.

“Of course not,” replied dad confidently.

“Wear your swim suits just in case,” whispered mom.

With perverse pleasure she waited for the maid to show. “Now when she gives her standard excuse of missing work because of a flooded house, I can tell her about the flooding in my house,” she thought, looking out the window every time she heard a footfall.

Five days later, the rain abated and the sun shone, but mom is still wringing her hands waiting for the maid to make an appearance.

"I bet you she'll show up on the 1st, in time to collect her salary," said mom, conviction shining in her eyes. Walking into the kitchen, she almost missed dad's response, "There you go again. Making a big deal out of everything!"