It was December in Chennai–a city in the southern part of India–when the monsoon season gave way to the cool mist that crawled in from the east and hung in the air, wrapping the city skyline in a white canopy. Through our bedroom window, dew drops on the leaves of the coral-flowering tree gleamed in the morning light. What a beauty! My husband, Sriram, strode in bearing two steaming hot cups of South Indian filtered coffee. The wall clock read 7 a.m. Just the right time for a morning walk.

As I put on my walking shoes, Sriram said good-bye, a relaxed smile on his face as he headed off to work. Outside, there was a mild drizzle. The local joke about the city, "hot, hotter, hottest," had reminded me of a sultry, sweltering feeling, but the crisp, cool air was so pleasant that it took it all away. It came as no surprise, that we, the Chennaites, regularly lamented the heat and fled to colder places, usually abroad. The soft morning light was a soothing gray rather than the blazing sunny yellow that abruptly appeared every morning nine months of the year, as though someone had suddenly turned on a torch in your sleeping eyes.

The drizzle gave way to an on-and-off rain. When Sriram returned from work, the rain was falling steadily. The next day, we woke up to a dim, gloomy, and rainy morning. Strange, we thought. Perhaps these were the final monsoon showers. The rain began to clatter against the steel drain on the roof, like the sound of pebbles thrown on metal sheets, and we heard the sound of a loud, prolonged thunderous roll that settled into a softer, continuous rumble. “Let’s charge the mobiles,” said Sriram, even as the TV didn’t share any news of the rain. I picked up the cell phones, but the power went off. We waited for a few minutes, but there was no sign of it returning. Sriram left for work, driving and splashing through rainwater.

The only sound in the neighborhood was the rain hammering. Slowly, thick, threatening clouds rolled in, and  their darkness consumed any remaining spec of light. I tried to enjoy the cold air biting into my bones, hoping the power would return soon. Power cuts were common during continuous heavy rains. Rainwater was seeping into the streets. By dusk, when Sriram returned, the rains had not ceased. But the power was back on, and I eagerly made us dinner: grilled salad and pasta. Then, around midnight, thunder and lightning struck again, cutting off the power. The noise continued to pound into our ears and eyes, making it impossible for us to go to sleep.

The following morning, streaming shrouds of dark, foreboding clouds writhed and wrung their rain heavily. It was painfully dark. The walls were now moist. The floor was cold. The water on the streets was a foot higher. The cell phones had died. I tossed out everything in the fridge because it stank. We scraped out a few old candles, dusted them and laid them carefully for the night. Everyone was huddled in their homes. This had never happened before.

After searching the attic, I found a radio. I switched it on and there was finally news about the rain. The government meteorological forecast was dodgy as usual, but some weather bloggers were offering forecasts and volunteer groups were sharing their accounts of rain. My husband stayed home from work. Instead, he went to see how his elderly parents were doing, walking the length of the block in the rainwater that was now laced with sewage and stopping at box stores that took cash to buy groceries and candles. After each of these trips, he took a bath in Dettol. When the rain stopped, which it rarely did, I climbed up the stairs to the terrace to survey the sky. All I found were sheets upon sheets of black, tumultuous, menacing clouds about to burst into more torrential rains.

No milk. No vegetables. No curd. Just rice and lentils and the good old gas stove for cooking. Once an hour, I tuned in to the city’s FM radio to hear news that shed some light on the situation. The city was flooded. Water had rushed into the homes in a few posh areas of the city as well. The city’s main water reservoir was overflowing and so the administration decided to open up the water gates. Without warning, water went gushing down, flooding areas on its way. People were stranded with no food, water, or medicine. There was still no let-up in the skies. Murky clouds hung low, bringing with them a deluge of rain. No hint of stopping anytime soon. We learned over the radio  that over 400 people died and millions of homes were destroyed.

Two whole days passed. By then, we had adjusted our needs to survive without phones and electricity. We yearned for sunlight. We prayed for the rain to stop. We cried out in our hearts, "Won't you bring back our sun?" The sun we had taken for granted in all those years has now become invaluable; it was a luxury. That was the first time we realized we had something significant that we had grown so apathetic to the point of loathing; we had never appreciated its value until we lost it.

 At last, that afternoon, the lovely sun peeked out. Nine years have passed, and during that time, there were a few months of unbearable summer heat, but I never complained, groaned, or even whined. The rising sun will live in my heart forever.