Dear Guwahati, Google Maps Didn’t Warn Me About the River on My Route

It began like any other day. I slung my bag over my shoulder, packed my tiffin, and mounted my bike to head to the office—just as I have done countless times over the years. But little did I know that this routine journey would soon become a harrowing reflection of Guwahati’s worsening urban chaos.

Within minutes of leaving home, the skies opened with a torrential downpour. A few miles down the road, I encountered the first of many challenges—a large pond of water spread across the street. Somehow, I managed to maneuver through it, my tyres slicing through the flood. But once I crossed the Satgaon railway line and entered the stretch toward Patharquary, the road had completely disappeared. What lay ahead was no longer a road—it was a river.

A river of artificial water.

The rainfall showed no sign of stopping, and the flow of stormwater surged with an unrelenting force. It was immediately clear: there was no way I could continue. The path ahead was a gamble between risking engine damage and personal safety. I had no choice but to turn back.

In search of an alternate route, I redirected myself through Budh Bazaar Road, hoping it would lead me to Panjabari Road and eventually to Six Mile—the main artery that connects the entire city. But optimism soon gave way to resignation. As I approached Panjabari Road, I was greeted with the same grim scene: yet another raging flood of rainwater, indistinguishable from a river in full spate.

There was no third route. No hidden lane. No secret bypass. Only resignation.

For the first time in my life—after 26 years of growing up in this city—I felt genuinely trapped. Trapped not just by the waterlogged streets or fallen trees but by a sense of helplessness in the face of an avoidable civic collapse. I turned back once more, this time heading home, drenched, exhausted, and frustrated.

And when I reached home, the situation had only worsened. Trees were uprooted, victims of gusty winds. Power lines were down. Electricity cut off. The city—one of the fastest-growing in the Northeast—was brought to its knees. And all it took was one heavy spell of rain.

What we’re witnessing is not just a bad weather day. This is the story of a city drowning under the weight of its own unplanned growth. A city where drainage systems collapse under seasonal rain, where roads vanish with every thunderstorm, and where citizens are left stranded—literally and figuratively.

Guwahati didn’t always use to be like this. It rained when I was a child too—but never did the city feel so broken, so overwhelmed, so unprepared. Today, every major road becomes a hazard zone. Every lane, a temporary pond. And every household, a prison during extreme weather events.

We talk about smart cities, green energy, bullet trains, and AI-powered governance. But where is the smart planning that ensures our roads remain navigable during monsoons? Where is the drainage infrastructure that keeps the rainwater flowing into canals and not living rooms? Where is the accountability?

The crisis is no longer seasonal. It’s structural.

When waterlogging happens in one pocket of a city, it's a local problem. But when every arterial route becomes submerged, that's an urban emergency. Yet, year after year, all we get is tokenism: a few de-silted drains before monsoon, some PR-friendly tree plantations, and assurances that “work is in progress.”

Enough is enough.

Guwahati deserves better. Its citizens deserve better. We cannot be expected to adapt endlessly while the system continues to fail. Today it was me who couldn’t reach work. Tomorrow, it could be an ambulance that doesn’t reach a patient. Or a school bus stuck mid-flood. Or a fire truck unable to save a home.

Urban floods aren’t just an inconvenience anymore. They’re a warning bell. One that grows louder with every passing year—and one that those in power can no longer afford to ignore.

ALSO READ: Guwahati Drowns Again: When Will the Flood Story Finally End?