Witness to the waves: Stories of survival from the 2004 tsunami

Often as a reporter, you see sorrow and horror—and go on with your daily life once the story is filed. It's part of the strangeness of a reporter’s life. But some stories stay with you. This was one of them.

A Sunday in December 2004, the day after Christmas, I was at a Venkaiah Naidu press meet in Bengaluru, listening to his wordplay and rhymes, when news trickled in of a massive wave that had washed away people on Marina Beach in Chennai. Those were pre-WhatsApp days, and details were few. As more reports came in, we began to realise the scale of what had happened. 

The camera team and I left for the east coast—no time to go home and pack.

We drove south from Chennai. We had no clear destination; we drove along the coast to see and report what had happened.

Between Dindivanum and Puducherry, we found the road getting crowded with people moving in the direction from which we had come. People walking, carrying their children, their belongings. 

It was a moving mass of uprooted humanity. 

Some were sitting huddled by the road. Their distress and fear were palpable. Even those whose homes had survived the tsunami were frightened that a second wave would come and wash them away. The coast where some had lived all their lives had swallowed up their homes—and many of those they loved. 

Without a roof over their heads, there was still no sense of security. Many were waiting in the growing darkness to be told what to do and where to go. 

There were some temporary shelters. Crowded into these spaces, they waited to see what the dawn would bring. There was a temple where nearly 1,000 people were taking shelter. They did not know when they could return to the place they had called home. 

We drove on to Cuddalore, and early the next morning, as soon as it was light, we went towards the sea. At the village of Devanampattinam, a resident told me at least 300 people had been washed away. I remember thinking the number was too large to be true. We walked further, and I saw something that has stayed with me. An upturned boat, hundreds of feet from the sea. Lying on it face down, a man sobbing… What had he lost, and who had he lost?

We saw a body that had been washed ashore. Boats were setting out to look for more. 

Walking through villages close to the sea and seeing the height on the wall that the water had reached, I could only imagine the power of all that water and the impossibility of resisting its force. 

Our outside broadcasting (OB) van had joined us, and I began to do live reports. We fed the footage and interviews we had recorded. 

Grief and shock were evident everywhere we went. And also fear. 

We were interviewing survivors on the beach when rumours began to spread of a second tsunami. Announcements through speakers told people to get away from the sea. I had the mike in my hand. And fear of the sea in my heart. One of the villagers was telling me in Tamil, ‘Don’t run. You may fall. Walk quickly instead.’ 

I didn’t understand at first why he was saying that. I hadn’t even realised that I was running away from the sea. It was an instinctive response to the announcements. All of us were running away from the sea. 

We visited shelters where the homeless and those too frightened to go home were staying. Those of us who have never had to deal with being uprooted from our homes can only imagine what that could be like. 

Among them were hundreds who had already dealt with displacement—people who had fled their homes in Sri Lanka. They had been living in refugee camps before the wave came and had been forced to uproot themselves again.

At the shelters we visited were many babies. Little Nirojan was just a month old. He had started his life at a refugee camp for displaced Sri Lankans. He and his family had been living there when the tsunami hit and washed away his home. He was a fragile little boy, and his mother, Mary, was worried about her fourth and youngest child. “I don’t have enough milk, and because of that, the baby is sickly,” she said. “The doctor said I should drink about three litres of milk. But we can’t afford that. It is very difficult.” She was also coping with post-surgical pain. “They have operated on me and taken the child out. Now I often get stomach pains,” she said. 

Sister Sahay, a worker helping care for those at the shelter, said many mothers did not have sufficient breast milk for their children. “Some of them are not able to drink the milk, so they mix milk powder with boiled water. The oven is kept ready here, and they boil the water and feed the babies,” she said. “We feel so bad because, at this small age itself, they have a feeling of tension and panic.”

Sindhija, the youngest baby in the camp and looking healthier than Nirojan, was the youngest of Dhananayaki’s 10 grandchildren. The whole family was originally from Sri Lanka. Dhananayaki told us, “When the water came, we came out onto the road. We did not know where to go with the children. One of my grandchildren is missing.”

The babies would be in their twenties now. I hope life has been kinder and better for them after that very difficult start. 

From Cuddalore we moved to Puducherry. The entire beach area in Puducherry had been sealed off. The usually bustling walk along the sea face was deserted. The rocks and elevation had protected much of this area from the worst impact of the giant wave. 

As journalists, we were allowed beyond the barricades and made our way to where we could see the ocean. We were the only human beings around. It was eerie standing there, looking out over the endless waves. The sea was calmer but still overwhelmingly powerful. Looking out, I thought of the grief and devastation the sea had caused in the lives of human beings who had lived next to it for centuries. 

Fishing villages on either side of the town, up and down the coast, were devastated. Most of the dead and missing were fishermen and their families. One of the survivors in a shelter along the coast said, “They may as well put poison in the food. We have lost everything.”

Warnings had been issued for people to avoid the beach and for fishermen not to go into the sea. The deadly sea had been the source of their livelihood also.

In Puducherry, a boys' shelter, the Home for Homeless Children, had become an emergency shelter for nearly 1000 people.

At the shelter we met young Silambarasan, a resident for three years. His parents were dead, and his aunt had left him at the Home. One day, she came and picked him up, pretending she was taking him for a haircut, and sold him to a man who took him out of town. Silambarasan escaped and made his way back to the home. And when the home was opened as a shelter for those who had run from the tsunami, Silambarasan was there to welcome them. 

He told us, “Most of the people were crying and looking for their children. We made the children sit in a line, and we served them food and water. Then I played with the children and comforted them. The small children were crying when they came in, but now they are happier. I am seeing smiles on their faces for the first time in three days.” 

A child himself, Silambarasan's compassion was striking. “I like children very much, and they were playing with me. They are running around and laughing, and the garden looks beautiful because they are here,” he said. “I used to be scared but not anymore. We can die anytime, and I am not scared to die. But the poor children were scared.”

The sense of responsibility and warmth shown by the Home’s children was a surprise even to those who interact with them daily. Sister Lissy, in charge of the Cluny Padmini Sneha Illam, said, “When we came in, we were quite surprised. All the luggage of the people had been arranged, and they told us the children had helped them. We did not have time to tell them what they should do as we were helping the people to come inside. They are precious children, very good children. They are inviting them for meals, serving them, and helping clean the dishes. They are doing almost all the work.”

Another boy, Santhosh, said the tsunami refugees were clearly traumatised. “They would wake up in the night and say, ‘Water is coming; there is an earthquake.’ They could not do anything; they were just crying. We did whatever we could, and we are glad we could help.”

Sugirdha, one of the survivors, told us, “We were standing outside, very scared. They came and called us inside and took care of us. They made us sit down, gave us food and water, and told us not to be scared. Our children were hungry, and they brought them water, told us to stay here, and that we should not be frightened.”

It often so happens that those with little of their own are the ones who give the most. The 46 boys living in the children’s home welcomed and reassured the bewildered refugees. Perhaps they understood better than most the importance of a helping hand in times of need. I hope they all went on to have the good lives they deserve.

I spent five days on the east coast before returning to Bengaluru.

In safe Bengaluru, perched high on the Deccan plateau far from the sea, the neighbourhood was getting ready to celebrate the arrival of the new year. 

Often as a reporter, you see sorrow and horror—and go on with your daily life once the story is filed. It is part of the strangeness of a reporter’s life. 

But some stories stay with you. This was one of them. 

Years later, I went to Cuddalore again to cover the anniversary celebrations of a home for tsunami survivors set up by Helpage India with contributions from NDTV viewers. 

We spoke to the residents—elderly people in varying stages of health—about how they found their way to this place. They shared rooms—each had a bed and a place to store their limited belongings. They were guaranteed food and shelter for life. It wasn’t much from our privileged point of view. But they spoke of feeling secure. 

The day ended with music and celebration. We held hands and danced together. 

(The writer is a senior journalist based in Bengaluru)