Asha Iyer Kumar
21 November 2011, 7:49 PM
The fire alarm system in our building has the habit of going off on a whim, ringing at the most indiscreet moments and with such annoying regularity that I am forced to think that either the contraption is innately defective or is downright neurotic. I even suspect that it has been uniquely wired to keep a tab on the emotional quotient of families in the building, detecting the minutest spark or fume that materialises between the residents here in.
The first time it struck after we moved into this building some months ago, I was in the shower scrubbing an obstinate layer of henna off my hair. Although one is expected to run to safety on instinct, the circumstance is such that it would take at least a good five minutes to steer clear of the situation. First, you don’t walk out of the bathroom in a full suit; second, you spend moments gauging the genuineness of the alarm and debating the need to run because such devices by nature love to scream and scare, and their integrity is always in question; third, you need time to find and grab at least the phone before you scoot.
All done, as I step out hoping that it is only a bogey out to hassle us, the earsplitting ring stops. The silence that falls in the corridor is more deafening than the eerie screech of the alarm itself. Looking around, I realise that not a soul has stirred out, no hint of panic, no fire. I go back to the shower and the henna, glad that I didn’t make an odd spectacle in front of my new neighbours. So much for vanity and its fake formats!
Although the regularity with which the alarm knocks me out of my skull these days has made me more skeptical than scared, I am yet cautious. So much so that my husband thinks I am a jerk to keep a bag containing my passport, some money and a few other items ready to pick up and run whenever summoned by the alarm.
“Preparedness never hurts, honey,” I tell him. What I don’t mention is the lurking fear of an eventuality where we find ourselves in front of a scorched structure, like dispossessed people after an earthquake as shown on television. Sinister thought, yet one that is as real (or weird) as a passing contemplation of life after a temblor or a tsunami. Some weeks ago, the alarm struck again. This time, it lasted for more than the prescribed period of waiting set by our security person.
“Get out only if it lasts for more than 5 minutes,” he has advised.
Clutching my emergency kit and cell phone, I waited, getting restive as minutes passed by. The warning lasted long enough to shake people out off languor and open their doors. It was a convention of sorts, throwing open an opportunity for us to know who lived next doors.
“I can smell something burning,” a gentleman shuffling across in a frenzy remarked. I sniffed. It was only the smell of the brinjals I was sautéing a while ago. Men sometimes can’t tell the smell of burning objects from
fried vegetables!
As some of us huddled inside the elevator, he called out, “Take the stairs. The lift can be dangerrr.…”Elevator shut, we were on our way down. The descent seemed to last an eternity. Outside, the firemen, the cops and the ambulance had arrived and we scurried into a sea of
curious onlookers.
“What happened madam?” a young lady inquired from behind.
“A fire alarm.”
“You living here?”
“Yes.”
“Oh, so scary.” She shuddered.
“Ah, yes, scary.”
Minutes passed by and nothing untoward happened. The policemen gave an all clear and as we sauntered back wondering what it was all about, someone remarked, rather derisively, “Smart system up there. Won’t let our women leave a simmering stew on the stove and get on the phone or Facebook!”
I gasped. Did he say stove? The brinjals! Had I turned it off before leaving? God!
I rushed to the elevator dreading the return of the rattle.
I tell you, an over efficient, faultless system that allows no margin of error or scope for deviation can be as frustrating as a system in disrepair.
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