A humorous account of a personal flood encounter in a basement parking lot quickly expands into a satirical critique of India's predictable monsoon-related urban flooding, inadequate infrastructure, and superficial problem-solving, questioning media coverage and highlighting the cycle of recurring misery.

A humorous account of a personal flood encounter in a basement parking lot quickly expands into a satirical critique of India's predictable monsoon-related urban flooding, inadequate infrastructure, and superficial problem-solving, questioning media coverage and highlighting the cycle of recurring misery.

A humorous account of a personal flood encounter in a basement parking lot quickly expands into a satirical critique of India's predictable monsoon-related urban flooding, inadequate infrastructure, and superficial problem-solving, questioning media coverage and highlighting the cycle of recurring misery.

The trouble with football is that it makes one thirsty. And the trouble with beer is that no matter how much one buys, it evaporates far too quickly. So, when I ran out of stock last week, I peeled myself off the couch, picked up the car keys, blew an exaggerated kiss to the missus, and descended in the lift to the basement.

My battle plan was elegantly simple—zip to the neighbourhood supplier of essential fluids, buy replenishments, return home in time to watch the second half of the World Cup match.

After the overnight rains, however, the basement parking had other ideas. What greeted me was a vast sea, with most cars submerged up to their hubcaps in oily muddy water. Like some medieval intrepid explorer, I removed my shoes, rolled up my trousers, and waded in.

I had just reached my E20-guzzling chariot when some idiot drove past in an SUV, unleashing a minor tsunami across the basement. Ominous gurgling and sucking sounds followed, as small waves lapped against my car. Suddenly, in addition to fretting about water settling at the bottom of my fuel tank, I began worrying about the bottom of my car settling in a water tank.

I placed my shoes atop the car as I fished around in my pockets for the car key. Opening the door revealed four inches of water inside—enough to fully submerge the pedals in a delightful ‘footbath’. The car sputtered reluctantly to life. Just as I began to move, I remembered the shoes still perched regally on the roof. I stopped, stepped back into calf-deep water, and retrieved them. Naturally, at that precise moment, a brash youngster roared past at full speed, sending a spectacular plume of dirty water that drenched me completely. I shouted some choice words about his mother’s sleeping habits, but the scoundrel was already out of earshot.

Defeated, I sloshed back upstairs, resolving to later send Bassaram, my driver, for beer, as also Black Dog soda, Black & White ginger ale and Black Label luxe blended water. If these beverages were good enough to sponsor FIFA telecasts, they would surely be good enough to quench my thirst—assuming, of course, that such products were even available in Delhi. One must cling to illusions in thirsty times.

Back home, I discovered to my dismay that the missus had switched from the sports channel to the news.

“Why don’t they ever fix Mumbai’s monsoon problems?” she asked petulantly, eyes fixed on the screen. I glanced at the television. The visuals were disturbingly familiar—flooded roads, local trains chugging through waist-deep water, and a romantic couple frozen dramatically against a towering wave on Marine Drive.

The anchor droned on with practised gravitas about sudden downpours, high tides, the overflowing Mithi river, potholes large enough to swallow bikes and riders, and yet another building collapse prompting the inevitable “enquiry to fix responsibility”.

I tried to wrest the remote from my wife, but she flipped to another news channel. There was nothing new in the news. Floods were everywhere—from Ajmer, where one least expects them, to the usual chaos in Patna. On yet another channel, everything seemed to be collapsing: clock towers in Kozhikode, hillsides in Wayanad, tenements in Shimla, and roads in Uttarkashi.

“There’s never anything different, is there?” I asked wearily, wringing out my shirt.

“Yes, there is. So far, the Shivaji Bridge hasn’t submerged this year. Remember how, every monsoon, newspapers ran front-page photos of DTC buses drowning under it?”

“I thought that was the Minto Bridge,” I said absentmindedly.

“That’s what I am talking about, stupid. The Minto Bridge is now called Shivaji Bridge.”

“Ah! So, apparently, changing the name of the bridge has fixed the problem!” I said. A eureka moment struck. “If renaming a bridge banishes floods, why stop there? Darling, let’s change other names, too, and fix poverty, education
and health!”

She shot me the look reserved for particularly stupid husbands. “Shut up! We’ve tried that. Aren’t we Bharat already?”

Another TV channel aired human-interest stories of the denizens of Delhi coping with the downpour. A harried techie from Gurugram described six agonising hours in traffic, his voice cracking like a man who had survived hell. A housewife in Rajendra Nagar showed the camera team her flooded bedroom, a saucepan floating near the door. Then came Ramlal, a cycle rickshaw puller in Patparganj, flashing a toothless grin. He claimed he had earned Rs600 ferrying children between their homes and the bus stop.

“What about Assam?” I asked. “Isn’t there any coverage of the Brahmaputra? Usually the Barak, Subansiri, Lohit and the rest wreak havoc in the northeastern states.”

“I don’t know,” my wife replied. “Maybe there have been no floods there. Or maybe the channels have no visuals. Or maybe they don’t know that those states are part of India.”

“The rains bring misery year after year and everything is in a mess. The predictability of it all is almost boring. Why doesn’t anyone do anything about it?”

“Why don’t you?” challenged the missus.

“Me? Why should I?” I asked. “Now give me that remote. The replay of last night’s match is waiting.”

K.C. Verma is former chief of R&AW. kcverma345@gmail.com

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