A cyclone at my door.

When asked to evacuate, we immediately clicked pictures of our grandmother's photos hanging on the wall.

Pickles and playing cards were also taken.

A pair of clothes, tissues and electronic devices are some of the only essentials we possess.

The marble on our kitchen table reflects the waves. So, we're closer to the sea. Extremely closer.

Ohh, we can also hear the waves at night, right before bed it cradles you to sleep. We believed, the cyclone is like any other high tide. Neighbours called, cops were friendly, foes turned into friends.

We held our hearts, joined hands and watched all the possible news channels. Television reporters doing what they were best at! My father looked at the television for once and at me the other. Reminding the choice I had taken.

The cyclone skipped Mumbai, our coast, the family and all of us escaped!

Nisarga was unlike what we had ever experienced. Ever. 

The aftermath was only coconut trees swaying like never before, scattered leaves and lots to unpack.

The aftermath was the realization that Uncle R called our neighbours to find out if we were still alive.

Aunty K had her stories to tell even when the cyclone approached..

Games were prioritized, responsibilities forgotten.

Friends from a thousand kilometres away warned, people who were a phone call away turned their backs!

Nisarga was an experience.

Nisarga was like the rollercoaster in an amusement park i always dreaded to take.