No sign of electricity. Only one candle remains in the packet. At moments when the rain softens a little, I can hear water gushing through the paddy fields nearby. Alone in my room, clinging to the faint candlelight, I continue reading with a trembling heart. Just when the ferocity of the rain lessens, I freeze in shock—some people outside are shouting at the top of their voices. Before I can process anything, the soothing kul-kul sound of flowing water suddenly stops.With no torch and such limited light, I’m forced to sit in my room.
How the people of Dantewada forgot he night of 26 August. The night is not normal one A pitch-dark room. A single candle flickers weakly, its flame trembling, it might last another thirty minutes at most. After that, even the last hint of light will disappear from my room. My phone is dead, no torch either. I still have eight to nine long hours to survive before dawn arrives.
Since yesterday evening, relentless rain has been pouring down over Dantewada. During the heavy downpour in the late afternoon, a first-grader named Ranjit from the Binjam Balak Ashram had cried because he wanted to go home. At that moment, neither Ranjit nor anyone else in the ashram understood how terrifying an evening the Indravati River was preparing to bring.
All day long I did not dare even once to go near the window to peek outside at this ferocious rain-and-thunderstorm of August month. There was no peace inside the house either. The asbestos roof has four or five leaks. Water kept dripping constantly—tip tip, tung tung—in that strange rhythm. The mugs and bowls kept filling up, I emptied them, they filled again, and before I knew it, the last light of the sun vanished from my room.
Last night, when the bulbs glowed for the final time, my phone had only five percent charge. A little later, the screen went completely dark. No one knows where I am or what I’m doing. And I have no idea where the others are either. I don’t know where landslides have occurred, or where the river has overflowed like a mad giant.
My only means of knowing such things—my phone—may not see power anytime soon. It’s been almost 24 hours of continuous rain since last night. On the only bridge connecting Dantewada town to Binjam, the Indravati is rushing past with a savage current. The river is swollen, spilling over its banks. And here—no sign of electricity. Only one candle remains in the packet. At moments when the rain softens a little, I can hear water gushing through the paddy fields nearby.
Alone in my room, clinging to the faint candlelight, I continue reading with a trembling heart. Just when the ferocity of the rain lessens, I freeze in shock—some people outside are shouting at the top of their voices. Before I can process anything, the soothing kul-kul sound of flowing water suddenly stops.With no torch and such limited light, I’m forced to sit still and silent. Where could I go? The children in the nearby hostel are already asleep. I get up once, open the blue candle packet, and count again—though I already know there’s only one left. I must survive the entire night on this one flame. I haven’t cooked. Hunger is biting. I go near the stove, thinking I’ll prepare something, but then sit back down on the bed. If I want the candle to last until morning, I can’t waste it on cooking.
I begin mixing soaked chickpeas with chanachur, chopped onions, tomato, and lemon to make a light dinner. Suddenly—there’s a knock on the door. Startled, anxious, hopeful all at once, the steel spoon with the carved floral pattern slips from my hand. It’s Rajo Didi’s voice outside.“Babu, are you already asleep?” I get off the bed. The jute sack placed at the doorstep is soaked and heavy. I push it aside and open the door. Rajo Didi stands there with a torch in one hand and an umbrella over her head. Lipika is with her.
Didi’s light yellow saree is almost completely wet. Rainwater drips from Lipika’s face; her body shivers uncontrollably. They come inside. Didi shines the torch towards the mugs and bowls collecting water. She places her soaked black umbrella on the wet floor and speaks—“Most houses in Patel Para near the riverbank are flooded. A few mud houses have collapsed. Come outside and see.” I take the torch from her and step to the back. Water is nearly touching the raised platform behind my room.
The river has spilled over into Patel Para and is now moving towards our school area. That’s why the kul-kul sound of flowing water had suddenly vanished. Didi checks on me and leaves. She tells me that from her house, the river is now flowing barely 150–200 meters away. Meanwhile, faint sounds of people talking together drift from Patel Para. I long to go and see the situation with my own eyes. But in this pitch-black night, I have no companion—except the two candles. Not even a single firefly to keep me company.
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