During my growing years, fire threats are a known risk to our Delhi neighborhood. The apartment is the entire third floor of a large, three-tiered building. The ground floor houses a sawmill and a massive timber warehouse, “Abbott Sawing and Lumber.” Mr. Abbott and his son attend their office six days a week. Small clusters of concrete masonry residential buildings line a couple of miles of the four-lane main road. Rickety lumberyards nestle between these sturdy structures. A few workers live in ramshackle construction, among the logs. For a two-mile section, this pattern lines both sides of the broad main road. Our cluster contains a trio of buildings. The one where we live adjoins a stretch of timber. Because we act as a buffer, the other two buildings are safer.

Behind the buildings and lumberyards, narrow streets run east to west. Small, old, one or two-story homes line these narrow alleys. Old Delhi begins its northward expanse for miles. The double road acts as a boundary between Old and New Delhi. Day and night, enormous timber trucks traverse the road.

The summer sun parches Delhi, leaving it bone-dry. Hot Loo winds blow from the Thar desert. A careless match could ignite the dry out lumber, burning stretches of timber in massive conflagrations. Summer nights sleeping under the starry heavens, we awake to a reddening sky, and recognize a blaze as distant fire-engine sirens pierce the silent night. We rush to the terrace to determine the fire’s location. Roaring infernos, soaring skyward, create a spectacular sight visible for miles from Old Delhi. Billowing black smoke transforms into white steamy clouds when hit by fire hoses. We watch the fire for a while until sleep overtakes us and we return to our slumber. The morning papers carry details. Summers brings two to three major fires every year.

Anticipatory measures for a fire in adjacent lumberyards, our parents teach us an escape route. Try to stay close, and do not, repeat do not, go downstairs. Head to the terrace, climb over the separating low wall, and onto the adjoining terrace. Use their staircase to descend. Leave the building, flee the blaze. I’m familiar with the route to my dad’s uncle’s house, a mile away. Go there, or seek help from the police. Do not talk to strangers.

A neighbor saw a distant fire near the vicinity of his store and made haste to it. To ensure attention and water are available to non-critical areas, personal presence and ready cash work best. Rising summer temperatures lead to water scarcity. As the river Jamuna’s expansive waters recede, sandy banks become fertile ground for sweet melons.

Some of these conflagrations invite editorials. After a large fire, newspaper accounts emphasize hazards. People disguise other fires as accidents. Do we know who the perpetrators are? Nah! Insurance companies pay claims. But we are adept at spotting non-accidental events.

A very close encounter is with one such fire is the lumber stretch next to our house. Our building and another cluster to the west enclose a string of yards. My brother, Sudhir, is almost six years old and I am eight. We also have a two-month-old baby sister, Munna. In the depth of winter, we sleep, warm and cozy snuggling in our quilts. Mummy remembers being in the kitchen preparing Munna’s late-night feed. She gazes at the peaceful darkness from the window. Two hours later, banging at our door, our cousin Usha yells “Fire, fire.” Daddy awakens and sees a burning door next to his bed.

Mom and Dad have given us a thorough grilling in our fire drills. We know what to do. Jagat Singh is the young lad living with us to help Mummy with cooking, housekeeping, errands, and maintaining the house. He seizes both Sudhir and me and hurries to the rooftop. We know we must not descend the flight of stairs. The sawmill and timber occupying the ground floor, shed layers of wood dust covering the steps to the second floor. Keeping living quarters clean and free of the light-colored powder is a chore. The sawdust will lead the fire upward, engulfing the unwary with smoke and flames preventing them to beat a hasty retreat.

With Sudhir on his shoulders, and a firm grip by my arm, Jagat Singh scales the low barrier and jumps to the neighboring building. I turn my head to see tongues of fire reaching high above the parapet wall.

In due course, Daddy asks me what I saw from the fourth floor terrace. A new structure, the building is solid masonry and cement. Fifteen-feet-high tops with clerestory windows above doorways provide good ventilation to the rooms. The first floor is higher with ceilings that are twenty-feet-high, perfect for businesses needing ample storage. Daddy and the neighbors guess the blaze was reaching at least sixty feet, forty-five feet taller than the highest stack of lumber. It wasn’t mere lumber burning. Whispers, serious looks, and nods point to foul play. Someone recalls the emptiness of the lumber yard next to the building. Another interjects, “More like emptied.” The fire’s rapid spread leads to one plausible conclusion. A whiff of kerosene precedes someone falling asleep. With relieved hearts, the owners share sweets, thanking God for everyone’s safety. Those around whisper—more like rejoice at the prospect of collecting an enormous insurance.

Jagat Singh has also seen the leaping flames. Overwhelming terror and panic strike, and he throws up. We pause a few moments for him to wipe his tears and collect himself. Although we notice the fire, Sudhir and I are too sleepy to grasp the situation and feel fear. At the end of the terrace, Tulsi Bhua mutters her prayers while waiting for help. She sees us and pushes us to hurry. We descend three flights of stairs and emerge to gawking crowds. We reach the narrow streets the other side the main road. The broad stoop of a residence looks inviting. We sit and huddle in the cold to wait for help or daylight. The raging fire, rosy skies and incessant sirens of arriving fire-trucks awaken the homeowners. Stepping out, they see us huddling at their doorstep. They usher us inside and offer makeshift beds for the night. Sudhir and I cling to each other as we fall asleep to whispers.

At first light, Jagat Singh leaves to locate our parents and see the lumberyards in chars. He returns with Daddy. With profuse thanks to our hosts, Daddy takes us both to Mummy.

Mummy, infant Munna, our aunt, and cousins have spent the night at a relative’s place two blocks away. It surprises me to see Mummy here. This house is not in our drill. Jagat Singh was also unaware.

Our father and others spent the night passing buckets of water in a human-chain to contain the fire. Most fire trucks are at the inferno’s far end where there is a storage of oxygen tanks. While waiting for reinforcements, the water group works to prevent the blaze going through the entry staircase or into the godown.

Out in the brisk sunny morning, clutching Daddy’s hand, I see chars and cinders-remains of lumber extending from our building to the far edge of the other building. Tall, black, windowless walls of the building’s face loom. It seems taller than I recall, and I crane my neck to see the top. A couple of fire trucks continue to hose water as the debris steams. Police presence is substantial, securing homes of fleeing residents, controlling crowds, and expediting gawking traffic.

Our cousins check the newspaper for information regarding the fire. A front-page photo shows a part of our building. Long licks of flames consume the billboard announcing a discernible “Bawa’s Lumber.”

Later that afternoon, police remove the barricades and we enter our home to survey the damage. Daddy’s motorbike is nowhere to be found; Some other items are missing as well. A cupboard built into the wall next to the fire, holds the remains of our toys. Heat penetrating the masonry walls has left them in black puddles on buckling shelves. Some color peeking through the blackness helps us guess which toy is which puddle. Daddy, seeing Sudhir’s puckering face, reassures him the insurance company will buy us better ones. Money in our piggy banks is ashes. The window in the cooking area, now cinders, hangs from shapeless hinges. But a thick coating of soot covers everything, including the walls. To Mummy’s amazement, the water continues to flow from the taps. The building’s solid brick-and-mortar construction astonishes everyone, given the devastating fire.

The water-chain, preventing the blaze from getting into the building, receives praise. Buckets of sloshing water passing from one hand to the next through the night has proven effective. The heat of the conflagration blisters paint on door panels, thirty feet from the flames. At Sudhir’s and my touch, it crumbles, flaking our hands and clothes. A wall mirror with a crazy melted pattern of a gazillion silver globules, reflects a million miniature images of the two of us. A steady stream of relatives and those nearby visit us, bringing food and drink. One resident stops by to inform Daddy where his motorcycle is. In a daze, Sudhir and I drift from room to room, stay close to Mummy and Daddy, and listen to snippets of conversations. We turn in early that evening. Falling asleep, soft, thankful words from Mom and Dad regarding Jagat Singh and the family’s support fill my ears. We have found every item previously thought lost or stolen. I hear how the fire damage could have been so much worse. I am grateful for sleeping in my bed.

Despite months-long restoration, normalcy for me returns too soon. I am in school the next morning, but the terrible incident remains my secret. We live in such hazardous surroundings and it embarrasses me to mention the fire. Mummy and Daddy review my day’s lessons and confirm homework is complete. They lose no time to ensure my daily academic routine is back in place.

Workers are taking the house apart for cleaning and woodwork rebuilding. The smell of smoke lingers for several weeks. The kitchen’s proximity to the fire means it suffers the most. Its usage is also maximal. Black dust permeates every nook and cranny. It needs scraping and chiseling to remove it. With window openings and sills rebuilt, the entire room requires a thorough scrubbing and repainting. To satisfy Mummy, pots, pans, stoves, and dishes, and other cooking items, take many scourings to come clean.

Our single cold-weather fire is a topic for every conversation for years. Other events relate to it, preceding or succeeding. Other conflagrations occur in other lumber-yards the following summers. We revisit the winter fire with its details on every occasion. Mummy feeding baby Munna at ten, rousing to banging, seeing a blazing door, sixty feet flames, oxygen cylinders, a water-chain saving the godown and building, and the suspicious smell of kerosene are all given a good airing. Securing Daddy’s motorcycle, safeguarding our grandfather Asa Nand’s portrait, and the “Murali Manohar” image of Lord Krishna, our close-knit community receives our gratitude once again.

Jagat Singh stays with us for a few more years. He leaves when he finds a well-paying job at an ice-cream factory. He drops by every few months to see Sudhir and me growing and revisit the fire with our parents. We move to Bangalore and he tries to stay in contact. He visits my aunt a few times hoping to meet Daddy on one of his brief Delhi trips but misses him each time. I remember him crystal clear, not forgotten.