The Before and After

TOMORROW, it will be a year since the tsunami hit. Some of the lives and stories I8217;ve come to know have made such an impact, it8217;s hard to believe it has been that long.

Like most fishing coves along the Indian coastline, Kokilamedu was insignificant until the tsunami. For me, the reality of the devastation began there: 40-ft waves had engulfed the village like a whale would a peanut. Few lives were lost, but the destruction was unbelievable. A concrete temple dome lay in shambles, homes were damaged, boats were embedded in the beach like seashells. We thought we8217;d seen it all until we came upon the ridiculous sight of a fishing boat wedged in the branches of a casuarina tree.

Somewhere along the way, we met Ezhumalai, a simple fisherman who was the self-elected village spokesman and our constant companion, friend and guide in the months that followed. With a husky fisherman8217;s drawl, he always addressed us as bossh boss or maadam madam; it was his local knowledge that helped us set up rehabilitation programmes.

Ezhumalai would patiently recap the events of that day. The fishermen had gathered for their daily meeting; the tide was high, which was not unusual, but then the giant waves began to rise and move towards the shore. At first it seemed unbelievable, but within seconds people were running frantically. The first person Ezhumalai thought of was his barely one-year-old nephew. The water was so high that he was sure the boy would be lost. Fortunately, Ezhumalai8217;s family had made it to a safe area. Others weren8217;t so lucky: An elderly woman from a neighbouring village, who had come to sell pieces of raw mango, couldn8217;t run fast enough and didn8217;t make it.

For days after the tragedy, the villagers refused to return. Fear had spread like wildfire, and many believed the tsunami would come back. The fishermen felt especially betrayed by the sea, which had been their most-trusted ally till then.

The most sensitive, yet silent spectators of the devastation were the children. And no one was equipped to help them deal with the shock. The problem became evident when Murugan, a fisherman, told us about his 14-year-old sister Kalairasy. She was complaining of recurrent chest pains but her medical reports were absolutely fine; then a psychiatrist diagnosed that she was exhibiting psychosomatic symptoms of the trauma she8217;d suffered. Another young girl, Chitra, who lived with her widowed mother and earned a living off tailoring, lost her sewing machine when her home was destroyed. Suddenly she had no source of income and a mother to take care of. Everybody had a tale to tell, everyone8217;s life was affected, only the degrees differed.

A young man I met in another fishing hamlet called Mayurkuppam lost his wife. She had gone out to collect dry wood on the morning of the tsunami. He was left to take care of his three-year-old daughter. While narrating his story, he said that in a way he was glad his daughter was too young to remember her mother8212;then he broke down hysterically. That sight stayed with me for a long time.

Another significant event was the Boat Launch, the first of which was in February. Repaired boats were relaunched into the sea amidst much fanfare, music and piping hot, spicy biryani. Children danced a la Prabhu Deva to raunchy film music blaring out of loudspeakers. Inaugurated by cricket stars, it was an important event that motivated the fishermen to get back to work. When the boats first got in, we were anxious but the enthusiasm of the fishermen made everything seem alright.

As the days passed, the fishing villages resembled a tourist hub. Hordes of people, including government officials, NGOs and foreigners became regulars, stopping by to speak to the community and distribute relief rations to anyone who even remotely looked like a victim. It became routine for the village to play host to people with aid and promises of a better tomorrow. Much to the amazement of those simple folk, the foreigners came with alien items like cotton swabs, baby wipes and canned pineapple juice. I saw a kid proudly wearing a T-shirt that said, 8216;I love New York babes8217;, a grandfather clutch a stuffed Tweety Bird and a paatee grandmother wonder how to use baby wipes.

Within the first few months, most NGOs, trusts and institutions had adopted every village and boldly put up signboards that promised to rehabilitate, repair boats and motors, conduct women8217;s development programmes and rebuild homes. And most did live up to their promises because temporary shelters and huge drums of drinking water sprang up everywhere.

As for us, things that were once alien soon became routine. Activities like slapping litres of sunscreen on my face, commuting from village to village on Ezhumalai8217;s bike, dreading the question, 8216;8216;Maadam, you want speed?8217;8217; and endlessly consuming coconut water to stay alive in the scorching Chennai summer. The other thing I dreaded but couldn8217;t avoid were the pay-and-use bathrooms in Mahabalipuram. On the brighter side, there was Nadine, the German physiotherapist who came as a tourist but stayed on to treat orthopaedic patients.

Things have changed quite a lot since those early days. The tsunami is no longer a part of daily conversation. It is back to the business of making ends meet. Tourists are no longer curious about what happened and enjoy the sun and sand. The fishermen are back at sea, the children have finished their board examinations and many have done well enough to secure seats in professional colleges.

The devastation of the tsunami affected me in many ways. For one thing, it made me grateful for the luxury of a clean bath and accept that old cliche: Life goes on.

Ritu Bhaskar Samuel is a social worker who works for the Chennai-based NGO Acts of Mercy