Stories from the Road 2002
an ongoing travelogue

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On my way to change some money I sensed something ajar. It was quieter than it had been for the last few hours, something was wrong. And there was - I began to look up ahead of me and others were simultaneously doing the same thing. In a few moments had begun to double-time it down the street until we had gathered across the street from a building billowing smoke from its ground level. I turned to a watch repairman who had set up his wooden table workshop on the sidewalk. Concerned, I asked him, "Are there people living in there?" "No, on the other side but nobody there," he said. He added, "The black smoke is from burning wires."

By now, there were about a hundred of us casually gawking at what was strangely exciting. The smoke was really pluming out of adjacent windows. I moved back and forth, trying to avoid the smoke as the breeze shifted its course. Most everyone else just maintained their positions. Luckily, sixty meters down the road there was a firehouse. Men in yellow-green-khaki outfits, some wearing yellow plastic hard hats, others just holding them were inching their way down the driveway of the station, craning their necks down the street to see what all the commotion was about. Step by step, they made their way out into the middle of the road. The men furthest out began frantically motioning others to come out and have a look. People began yelling at them from the crowd to come, to do something, so they jumped aboard old red trucks that carried large drums of water and a small motorized pump to push it through the hose.

As they made their way down the block on their truck, some were frantically trying to fasten their hard hats and another was showing his skill at activating the siren - well, ringing a brass bell with all of his might. The fire fighters were coming to the rescue. Everyone made way for the engines and then repositioned themselves around the frantic fire fighters to obtain the best view. It couldn't have been more than a minute before the first of several full-scale arguments broke out -- among the fire fighters. I can only guess what it was about: "Where should we stand?" "Who is going to hold the hose?" I watched them tentatively as what sounded like insults volleyed back and forth while the smokes plume continued to increase.

I looked up and saw the heads and torsos of people looking out their windows, down at the smoke and the commotion being made by the rescuers. For now they were safe being several floors up. The hose was unrolled, the men jumping back and forth over the hose as a direct line from the truck to the person holding the nozzle was determined. There did seem to be some quarreling over whom exactly was going to hold the nozzle. I waited for the water. Where was the water? Someone moved a lever, the hose began to inflate; the fire fighters began to yell at each other about this fact.

When the water reached the nozzle and begun to spray out, the hose began to jump up and down. The older man with the long white beard who had tried his best to lean back and keep the forceful hose at his own center of gravity was quickly overtaken by the hose's jumps. He and another man resumed screaming at each other until his reign of the nozzle was handed over. Now, all of the water was being sprayed at the latticed garage door that was halfway shut -- this is where most of the smoke seemed to be coming from. One thing troubled me: the deep black smoke that plumed out of the door's grillwork didn't look or smell like wood smoke. And then I thought back to the watch repairman's early appraisal of the situation being about old wires burning. I took several steps back. They must know this. They must be taking precautions. They must be aware that water doesn't help electrical fires -- which in fact, I would be arguing NOT to be the one holding the hose. The water continued, they inched closer and closer.

The smoke lessoned until they had the idea of opening the grillwork of the garage door so more water could get in rather than bounce back onto the steps and street. Several men hoisted it up and secured it with a wooden stick that stood for only a minute before the stream of water knocked it over. More arguing, they inched closer and closer. We all followed them, inching along in their shadows, closing in on the blackened room. Water showered the room's contents where the smoke seemed to be coming from.

As we got closer and closer, I made out that the black shapes the water was washing was indeed some sort of heavy machinery -- something certainly related to the production or distribution of electricity. And only a moment after I came to this hauntingly grave realization, a fireball followed by a boom, both of a magnitude rarely experienced in a lifetime roared from the wall most direct to us, toward us. In that instant, pandemonium hit. All of us bystanders, the kids and the old men, as well as the firemen, we all began to sprint down the street. It was a running start that Olympic sprinters would marvel at. When we slowed down and looked back, it was pretty clear that was the climax, that we wouldn't experience anything else like that because no one would squirt more water on the electrical circuitry. Then a few moments later, the arguing resumed.

I thought it best to keep my distance from these men and found the moneychanger. We both looked at each other with arched brows and big eyes. I said to him, "Water and electricity -- not good. Eh?" He heartily agreed, "Power must be turned off first." Now, that's a good idea. Changing money must pay better then fighting fires.

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"No Baba, you said 10 rupees."