After a well spent day I returned to the tent. The same two people I had seen earlier were sitting beside it and greeted me with a smile as I came back from dinner. There was something pleasant about that night. Maybe it was the breeze across the river or the company. I did not feel ready to end the day. I sat down at the entrance of my tent with legs stretched outside and opened a pack of bourbon. Not the drink but the biscuit, and somehow that small irony felt like a private joke.
Soon we began talking. The three of us shared fragments of our stories like how we had landed up here, where we were headed next and what we left behind back home. The conversations were light. As the hours crept by the other boys nearby returned to their tents and zipped themselves in for the night. But I stayed where I was.
At some point someone suggested a walk. So the three of us got up grabbed the mobile torch and stepped onto the suspension bridge. It was already past 10.30pm and the wind was brushing past our faces. The bridge swayed gently with every gust. The river thundered beneath the bridge, a force that could be heard clearly but never fully seen. We stopped midway and looked around. The view from the top was Mesmerizing. Could see the entire Shnongpdeng with lights.
Eventually we turned back towards the tent and stayed outside reluctant to let go of the night. And just like that the sky opened with a few rain drops that told us what was coming. We exchanged quick goodbyes and rushed into our tents. I zipped the flap closed and tried to convince myself it would pass. Someone had told me once that in Meghalaya the rain does not knock politely. It simply arrives and takes over everything.
I lay back scrolling through messages, posting stories as the weather turned fierce outside. The walls of the tent started to tremble. I sat up unsure whether this was just a passing thing or something worse. The downpour turned fierce within minutes. Water started to seep through the corners and collect in shallow pools inside the tent. The sides of the tent flapped so hard I thought they might rip. I tried to weigh them down with my bag, boots and my own body but nothing held. Every gust lifted the thin walls off the ground. For the first time in the trip I felt genuine fear.
Outside I could hear chaos, Shouts, Footsteps of People running. l imagined people evacuating, grabbing their belongings, abandoning the riverbank. I held on to the corners of the tent and tried to stay calm, but the water was creeping in fast. My clothes were soaked. My things were wet. There was no space left untouched by water. I sent a few messages to friends letting them know where I was and added simply that I was not sure if I would make it through the night.
After what felt like an hour the wind began to ease. The rain softened and I unzipped the flap and looked outside. The place looked like a battlefield. Some tents had collapsed and the others were blown several feet away. I stepped out and called to the people in the next tents. Are you alright, are you alive, in a funny note. They called back with a laugh and said yes, they were fine. I told them I was too. Even if everything I owned was drenched, it somehow felt like an achievement to be able to be there and say it.
I went back inside and sat for a moment, thinking maybe I could still stay. But the floor was soaked and it was freezing cold. What followed after that is a different part of the night.
To be continued...
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