'One Year Of Fani': How Cyclone Affected Odisha's Talamla Village

Every summer many depressions are formed in the Bay of Bengal eventually passing as cyclones over India's East coast, which sees more cyclones than the Arabian Sea and West coast.

Cyclones in the Indian Ocean are likely getting more severe with climate change, and its impact is going to be more devastating in the coming years. In the first week of May last year, millions of people were evacuated in preparation of a fast-approaching cyclone categorised as extremely severe.

Cyclone Fani landed with a wind speed of nearly 250 km per hour on May 3, 2019. The loss of life was limited to a large extent, but the destruction to property and livelihood was pegged at ₹24,176 crore. Nearly 1.65 crore people in 14 districts of the state suffered damages, the State claimed. Talamala was one place where such destruction had touched every villager. No one was spared.

Talamala, as I have pointed out before, is almost the edge of the world. Even though it's just 40 km from Puri, Talamala is at an intersection that no one crosses — end of the district and the beginning of Chilka Lake. A speck on India's long East coast bordering the turbulent Bay of Bengal.

Almost a year ago, on May 3, the village of over 4,000 inhabitants was one of the many torn apart by Cyclone Fani. A year on, the state is just nearing completion of immediate rehabilitation programmes as the COVID-19 pandemic sweeps across the globe, one wonders what further disaster awaits Odisha and villages like Talamala.

Even two months after the disaster, in June 2019, Talamala's residents were living in a state of despair.

The roads up to Talamala were well-maintained, but not the ones within the village. It was as if "development" had stopped right at the entrance of the village. "The roads are better than our houses," someone said at some point in the morning. "Maybe that's why they made it so well. So we can just sleep on the roads. Homeless."

To reach the village one crossed several electricity towers, twisted at their base by the cyclone. The first victims were the old power poles. The larger metal towers had withstood the first onslaught, but when the relentless winds pushed against them amidst paddy farms, they gave up. Over 25 lakh families were without power for weeks after the cyclone.

There were new high tension wires along the road. About five workers from the power department mended one pole, they would then move on to the next. And many more, until they make it to Talamala. Two months since the cyclone, and they still had nearly 10 miles to cover.

A short drive away from the Cyclone shelter was the junior school. Children played in the front yard, lined up for the mid-day meal, washed their plates and put it out in the sun to dry.

Some children were hanging by the snapped power lines or rundown tractors. People were completely oblivious to this safety hazard. In contrast, I was reminded of that one hot summer when I working at the London School of Economics and an Indian colleague was informed he could not use a pedestal fan in his office as it was a safety hazard.

The minute I got out of the car, I was mistaken for a government official. So little is the presence of the government, where it is most needed, that a person holding a notepad and pen is presumed to have come here for a survey. Why would anyone else come here, they wonder.

That afternoon men gathered around me to complain that no one had come to assess the wreck the Cyclone had left behind. They shared their stories of lost prospects amidst their ruined assets.

One elderly man decided I must visit each devastated house and photograph the members. In their mind, I was here for a survey.

"Tum unko humari maang bataoge?" asked this bearded gentleman man. Like most other men surrounding me, he wasn't wearing a shirt. His dark, hairless torso was bare, save a thread across his chest, announcing his caste louder than his voice could manage. The dull white dhoti was worn out by repeated use. He appointed himself as my guide and decided who I should not photograph or meet, revealing the deep cracks of casteism and class that remain intact even in times of a crisis. I was to take a photo, write the name and phone number, he said.

"But I am not from the government," I told them. "I am just a reporter. All I can do is write about your problems."

"Yes, but you can tell them, no," the older man said. "You can take all our photos and names, and tell them how we are living."

I didn't know what to say — how was I to document all the 800 households of a coastal village?

What would I say? "I am sorry all of you are suffering, but I want the worst case so I can write about it for a byline. Hopefully, someone will pay attention then." Not wanting to give in to defeatism, I tried to find meaning in this chaos.

The walls of a house no longer separated it from the street. The sky followed the people into their homes when they ducked through the small wooden doors to nowhere. Children didn't have to step out for sunlight, they had plenty within their rooms. Rain-soaked their clothes, grains, beds and belongings over and over again. Some had managed to cover their houses with tarpaulin sheets. These "houses" were often just rooms shared by several men, women and children. Under this makeshift roof, they shared space with the things and livestock which they had managed to save.

Villagers gathered around me and the crowd swelled with each passing house, my entourage was suddenly over 50 men or more. Some looked over my shoulder into my phone as I clicked pictures, making sure I wrote the names and phone numbers of each person.

As a journalist, I was deeply concerned that I was leading them on. As a woman, I was worried about this getting out of hand. I repeatedly told them that I am not from the government. That I am a journalist, and I just want to interview people. They ask me if I could pass on their details to the government at least? What good would just a couple of interviews do, someone asks me. What is in it for them, asks another person.

House after the house was in ruins.

I took their photos, and despite taking extensive notes I cannot match the faces to the names as I write this article, and because due to the lockdown my notebook is inaccessible to me in another city.

The old men gave me their phone numbers but asked me to call after a few weeks when hopefully the power was restored. With no power to charge their phones, almost all phones switched off many weeks ago. Some villagers took turns to plug their phones into a generator, for which they were charged between Rs 5 and Rs 50 by the proprietor of this unusual luxury commodity.

I just wanted to sit down and speak to two or three people and hear their stories. Remember their face, their problems. It became impossible to shake off the crowd. As much as I wanted to listen to someone's story, everyone here wanted their story heard. How does one decide who I should listen to.

I managed an in-depth interview of one villager, a Sridhar Sethi, even as the villagers pried. Then I slipped away. I crossed two streets of ruined houses, the village square and the road by the pond where the car is parked.

The water supply was contaminated, and all the water bodies — the ponds, wells and river — are used for bathing, washing, as well as drinking. This mixed-use rendered it highly polluted. Earlier in the day, I had noticed many children had yellowish eyes, and some had skin rashes and boils. It is probably the water, an NGO worker later told me.

After a few interviews and several pictures later, I left the swelling crowds. As I was walking back I noticed this stream. All the water bodies — the ponds, wells and river — are used for bathing, washing, as well as drinking. This mixed-use has rendered it highly polluted, which is evident when an old lady carried a pot of water from the stream.

As I waited, I noticed an old man who has persistently followed my local resource person and I. On reaching the car, he asked that his photo be taken and his details noted. He held the door, preventing the driver from closing it. The old man was not aggressive like others we had met earlier. His wrinkled bareback was bent with age, and he held a stick. He pleaded with the driver in Odia. He touched the driver's arm and then pleaded with folded hands. His eyes are moist, hair dishevelled.

After two minutes of pleading with the driver, who repeatedly told him we aren't from the government, the old man let go. He was living alone. His children had deserted him, and he barely had any ration or money left — I learnt later from my driver. I remember the tears in his eyes as we left.

At that moment, emotions competed for my attention — I was worried the crowd would return; guilty that I had given these people hope when there may be none; sorry that I'd let them down; angry that those in power hadn't heard them; relieved that I could leave safely.

As we made our way back to Puri, the image of the old man began to haunt me. His face at the open door of the car. His eyes pleading. I couldn't shake it off. I had no pictures of him, nor his name. But he is the one I remember every time I think of Odisha.

That was one year ago. I wonder what fresh horrors await Talamala through the COVID-19 pandemic: with their contaminated water supply, poor power connection, the old men building their village back, and the lack of access to government. They were locked down long before the lockdown began.

(Reporting for this was done with the Earth Journalism Network Bay of Bengal Grant 2019. A two-part series was published in IndiaSpend. You can see it here.)

Also Read: 1900 Deaths, Over 3 Million Displaced In North India Due To Floods: Global Climate Report