THE SHASHI THAROOR COLUMN

Powerless masses in the dark

People were caught in lifts and trapped underground. But New York just about quickly figured it was a power loss and simply dealt with it.

AP

... and the chaos in the morning.

GROWING up in Calcutta at the peak of what the municipal authorities euphemistically called "load-shedding", and on frequent visits to my ancestral village in Kerala, I was accustomed to periods of life without electricity. But in the developed West, it is taken for granted that lights come on when you flick a switch and that water flows when you turn the tap. The high-rise, highly automated civilisation of New York City would be inconceivable without electricity to power the elevators and computers, run water and sewage and allow human beings to function stacked high on top of one another a thousand feet into the sky.

So the great blackout of 2003 — the complete loss of electrical power for over 24 hours (in some places, nearly two days) in north-eastern America, just as Indians were celebrating Independence Day at home — had a cataclysmic impact far worse than if it had occurred in most parts of India. I was at the airport myself when the lights went out, in the process of being checked in for what was planned to be a blissful long weekend with the lady of my life. The power outage announced itself at the airport with a series of short but very loud blasts — an alarm that lived up to its name. After 9/11, New Yorkers' first reaction was inevitable: had the terrorists struck again? Anxious travellers jammed the cell-phone circuits in their quest for information. That fear was soon discounted, but as the lights stayed out and the lines at the counter grew longer, so did the faces of the waiting passengers thronging the airport. My lady sat forlornly on our suitcase, our holiday plans crumbling at her feet.

"If I were you, I'd go home," an airline staff member said, many despairing and sweaty hours later. Easier said than done: the lines at the taxi rank were like those outside a Britney Spears concert, and there wasn't a taxi in sight. Eventually, an airport bus drew up and we elbowed our way on board. In Manhattan, chaos ruled the streets: there were, of course, no traffic lights. As we dragged our luggage out of the bus to walk towards home, traffic inched around us, hopelessly clogged. A population normally trained to be mistrustful of strangers suddenly turned gregarious.

Blackout ... cover story for the third time. The previous occasions were in November 1965 and July 1977.

Drivers with car radios stalled in the melee became instant sources of authoritative wisdom. A city of individualists demonstrated their social conscience. A couple of unlikely samaritans in cut-off vests and reversed baseball caps incongruously tried to direct traffic at major intersections and, in some cases, actually succeeded in getting it to flow. Office-workers milled about on the sidewalks, unable to go home: the subways weren't functioning. Ice-cream vendors offered dramatic discounts on their melting products; others (this was New York, after all) hawked flashlights and batteries at extortionate prices. We gingerly threaded our way through the stalled cars back to our building. Thousands of people were on their stoops or their steps; a few had brought folding chairs to the sidewalks, unable to remain in their darkened apartments.

It was an evening of new experiences. Groping our way up 10 flights of stairs in pitch blackness. Losing our way to our own door and accidentally ringing someone else's bell at the opposite end of the hallway (normally cause enough for a shotgun to be pointed at your face). Being greeted there by an initially wary lady with a flashlight who kindly lent it to us so we could find our way back to our apartment. Discovering that, with no power, we had no water. Rummaging for candles so we could glimpse something around us in the dark. Unearthing ancient matchboxes we'd taken from restaurants just for their phone numbers (neither of us smokes). Realising that we had to feed ourselves — our usual practice, in the midst of harried Manhattan lives, was to cook with our dialling fingers (telephoning restaurants to deliver meals). Finding six-month old pasta and just enough water in the kettle to boil it with (and thanking the Lord the building had gas stoves rather than electric ones). Dining on the results by candlelight, drawn even closer together by adversity — one of the most romantic dinners we'd ever had.

Around the city, darkness brought out the unusual. Spontaneous parties burst out; my 19-year-old twin sons wandered to a "happening" in Washington Square Park, where hundreds brought drinks and drums and sang and chatted with nothing else to do. Crowds overflowed from bars. People looked up at a city normally blazing with light and enjoyed the unfamiliar experience of being able to see the stars in the sky.

Setting down for the night on a sidewalk...

After a sweltering (and sleepless) night, I groped my way down the dark stairwell at dawn, found a deli selling water bottles at double the usual price, and bought as many as I could carry just before they ran out. We brushed our teeth in Volvic. The radio claimed the airports were functioning, so we trudged out again (I was getting more exercise up and down the stairs than I'd managed all week in the gym). There were no unoccupied taxis in the street and the crowds outside the airport bus terminal would have filled several buses, but I found a cabby there who was willing to take us to the airport for twice the usual fare. Another couple shared the cab with us, all of us casting our New York-trained suspiciousness of strangers to the winds. We arrived triumphantly at La Guardia — only to find the terminal a campsite for tired and dispirited passengers, many sleeping in front of the counters. This holiday, we concluded three frustrating hours later, was not to be.

The taxi lines were shorter this time, and we were lucky enough to find a Sikh cabby who laughed that he felt more at home in the now-disorderly streets than ever before. With Punjabi enterprise he found back routes out of the airport to beat the gridlock on the highways. We climbed up our 10 floors again, wondering how long we'd have to ration our mineral water. When power was finally restored mid-afternoon, we realised what urban civilisation came down to: the joy of just being able to shower again.

The next day, in the hallway, we passed the lady who'd lent us the flashlight. Neither of us recognised each other. New York was back to normal.

Visit the author at www.shashitharoor.com

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