It happened on an ordinary October day, the kind Mumbai experiences often. I had just begun working at Nariman Point, which was about a one and a half hour commute from Santacruz East at that time. My younger brother was living with me since it was my first time staying on my own. Checking the weather was not something I usually did, so I had no idea how severe the rain had become until people at work started urging everyone to leave early.

By the time my brother called, I still did not understand the full impact of the storm. I told him I would start soon and left around three in the afternoon. By then the trains had already stopped because the tracks were flooded. Outside the station a few of us were fortunate enough to get a ride from a pickup truck driver who was heading toward Santacruz. He dropped us near Santacruz West, and by that time the entire area was dark and without electricity.

I had to walk to Santacruz East through water that reached my knees, guided only by the slow moving crowd making its way through the flooded streets. As I approached the intersection, with only a few lamps glowing faintly in the darkness, I suddenly heard someone call out “didi” in a voice I recognized immediately. It was my brother, standing there in the dark, waiting for me. In that moment every bit of fear I had been carrying simply disappeared. He later told me he felt the same relief when he saw me.

When we reached home, we lit a candle and saw that the room was completely flooded. The gas cylinder and the fridge were floating, and my brother had tried to save our belongings by placing them on the bed and shelves. We spent the night at a neighbor’s house, which was slightly higher than ours, waiting for morning to arrive. By sunrise the water had drained away, leaving behind a huge mess to clean and a memory that stays with my brother and me.