Imagine wading through waist-deep floodwaters, not out of choice, but sheer necessity, as the planet's climate unravels around you—this is the stark reality of climate breakdown in action.
But here's where it gets controversial: Is this just an isolated storm, or a wake-up call that our everyday actions are fueling a global crisis?
Location: Mumbai, India
Disaster: Maharashtra floods, 2005
Ruchira Gupta wears many hats—she's an English-to-Hindi interpreter, a former lawyer, and a devoted mother to her two daughters. Back in 2005, she was juggling a job at a small law firm in Mumbai when relentless downpours unleashed catastrophic floods across India's western state of Maharashtra, claiming 926 lives. To put this in perspective, between 1950 and 2015, India saw a dramatic threefold surge in extreme rainfall events—a trend backed by scientific studies—that's making such disasters more frequent and severe.
On that fateful day, the weather was a tempest: pouring rain and howling winds. I was at my desk when a colleague tuned into the radio and shared alarming news—the trains were about to halt because the tracks were submerged. "Ruchira, you should head out now," he urged, aware I had two young girls waiting for me to wrap up childcare duties by 6 p.m.
Without hesitation, I grabbed my bag and umbrella, dialing my husband en route. The situation felt chaotic and unpredictable. My colleague's advice was practical yet unsettling: steer clear of the ladies' coach on the train—India's rail system has separate compartments for women to ensure safety and comfort amid crowds—and opt for the general one instead. "You'll have more people around if trouble arises," he explained, pointing to the potential for collective support in emergencies.
The station, just a 10-minute walk away, was a battleground. Rain lashed at me relentlessly, rendering my umbrella a futile shield. By the time I arrived, water sloshed around my legs, soaking my feet and shoes. Churchgate station buzzed with frantic energy—crowds jostling to board trains amid announcements of service disruptions. I squeezed onto the last departing train, settling into a packed coach that crept along slowly due to flooded tracks. The roof leaked, forcing passengers to huddle under umbrellas. After a few stops, we halted at Bandra, where officials declared the journey over; the tracks ahead were impassable.
Still surrounded by determined commuters, I disembarked and navigated a bridge to the road. The deluge intensified up there, wind whipping rain into my face—I could barely keep my eyes open. No raincoat, just my bag clutched for warmth, my clothes drenched. What next? Home loomed four or five stations away, followed by a bus or taxi ride. Fortunately, my husband's office at Bandra Kurla Complex was nearby. I called him from a public phone. "We're shutting early; everyone's jittery about the floods. Buses are gearing up to evacuate. Come here, and we'll head home together," he said.
I ventured out, scanning for a taxi or autorickshaw—none in sight. I pressed on foot, unsure of the distance. At a major crossroads leading to the complex, the roads were ankle-deep in water, making each step a slog. Spotting a truck at a nearby gas station, I hailed the driver: "Can you take me to Bandra Kurla Complex?" He agreed to drop me off there.
From there, it was another trek across wide roads. The water rose to my knees, but I pushed forward, almost numb to the danger—hazards like live wires or open sewers didn't cross my mind. Across from the office, cars bobbed eerily in the rising flood. A fleeting amusement gave way to terror. Arriving safely, I saw buses idling, ready for evacuation. Some had ventured out and returned, stymied by submerged streets.
It was already 5 or 6 p.m., and my daughters were home alone with our caregiver. A friend in a nearby complex could have taken them in, but the path involved a slope where water rushed downhill dangerously—too risky for them to attempt. Reluctantly, I reached out to the wife of my husband's colleague in our building. I'm not one to ask for favors lightly, but desperation left no choice. "Please have our helper bring the girls to you," I pleaded. My eldest, just six, and the youngest, three, spoke to me briefly. Tears flowed as my older daughter reassured, "Don't worry, Mama, I'll look after her." The little one tugged at my heart: "No, Mama, I want you. Come home soon!" It was agonizing, but knowing they'd be cared for by familiar faces brought some solace. As a fervent believer in prayer, I held onto hope for their safety.
With that settled, I focused on the present. Drenched and shivering in the air-conditioned office, I felt the chill deeply. Staff raided the canteen, rationing scarce supplies: a single spoonful of rice and dal per person, as no one knew how long we'd be stranded. We improvised comfort in a large hallway—couches for resting, some retreating to workspaces. Floods persisted the next day, transportation crippled. Muddy waters coated everything; attempts to venture home failed.
My niece, interning at a law firm and staying with us, called. She'd weathered the night at her office, then walked home through the floods—a grueling two-to-three-hour ordeal. I implored her: "Fetch the girls, feed them, keep them safe."
By day three, rain ceased, but roads remained inundated. Hunger gnawed at me, and I needed my asthma inhaler—left behind, I struggled for breath. My husband, foot injured, couldn't navigate the waters. "No rain now; try the hospital across the road for meds," he suggested.
Civic authorities hadn't cleared the mess—it was a muddy quagmire. I made it to the hospital, pharmacy in hand, but spotted the canteen. Famished and in need, I asked for food: "I'm from the office nearby, starving, and must take my medicine—can you help?" Emotions overwhelmed me; tears flowed, highlighting the indignity of begging. Yet, they were kind, providing sustenance. Returning, I relieved the office: "One less mouth to feed here."
Evening brought a decision: brave the roads. Car owners organized carpools. My husband and I split between vehicles—for safety, in case one faltered. Uncertainty loomed: more water? Stranded buses? No streetlights? Drivers bore the burden in the filth and darkness.
I arrived home first, heartened to reunite with my girls. No power, no water—typical Mumbai residents don't stock candles, and pumps failed, forcing us to haul water from the ground floor to our third or fourth story apartment.
Electricity returned in a day or two, newspapers flooding in with harrowing tales: drownings in vehicles, parents swept away retrieving kids from school, electrocutions from fallen wires.
For a year, heavy rain paralyzed me—I avoided work, terrified of abandoning my daughters again. Trauma lingers; I fear downpours, insist my husband checks in constantly. It's only recent that I've connected the dots: this was climate change, sneaking up gradually, now undeniable. And this is the part most people miss: Each of us contributes to it, but is our individual effort enough, or does the burden fall squarely on governments that seem slow to act?
Little has changed since. Life resumed its rhythm, but sorrow endures for the lost lives. We felt abandoned, with no accountability. Responsibility must be shared—personally, collectively.
This testimony stems from collaboration with the Climate Disaster Project at the University of Victoria, Canada. For more, visit their site. (https://www.theguardian.com/p/xvpzd9)
Production team: Hats off to Sean Holman, Aldyn Chwelos, and Morgan Krakow.
Design and development by Harry Fischer and Pip Lev.
Do you agree that climate change is an inevitable force creeping up on us, or could we have prevented this through earlier awareness? Should governments be held more accountable, or is it up to individuals and youth to drive change? Who's to blame when disasters like this strike, and what solutions do you envision? Share your take in the comments—let's spark a conversation!
