Taking life at the flood

Just like us, almost the entire population of Nashik seemed to be out. As harried policemen tried to direct traffic, pedestrians rushed towards the bridge. Squeezing our way past exuberant schoolchildren, office goers, hawkers, housewives, priests, we managed a toe-hold on the bridge. Finally.

The fact that I was a first timer on a bridge with swirling waters below and menacing skies above was very obvious. So I was gently guided by a fellow “river watcher” to hold onto the railing and peer down slowly. Not much lower the Godavari crashed into the pillars of the British built bridge.

“Look, Hanuman has disappeared,” someone shrieked. I looked up and saw the river menacingly creep up to the first floor of buildings on the river bank. The famous two-faced 14 feet orange Hanuman idol I had often seen while crossing the bridge had indeed disappeared. During previous downpours, I had seen the idol struggle to stay above water. “When Hanuman disappears, it means a flood,” I was informed by an old city resident. “He rarely goes under and when he does, everyone automatically goes on flood alert.”

The rainy tour included the Ram Setu, which was barricaded by officials to prevent vehicles from plying on it. The more rustic Ram Setu was almost underwater. Scary! Just like us, across Nashik, on bridges big and small, hundreds crowded to see the swirling river waters. Everyone seemed to be taking the river’s fury in their stride. Some danced with joy, abandoning their rainwear, others watched in awe and a few like me, tied their raincoat hoods firmly and walked away looking for a dry spot!

The admonishing advice to us was: “Learn to enjoy the rains.” But what about the death and destruction? “All part of the circle of life,” a philosophical voice reminded. “Nature just reminding us of her presence.”