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Actually every year, on this day, my brain stops processing most things. A scrambled montage takes over. It starts with us missing being hit by waves on a beach in the small town of Rangat, because we left minutes before the #tsunami hit (~6.26 am local time). 3/n

It moves to the tiny village of Kadamtala, where hundreds of tourists desperate to head back to Port Blair were held over for hours, as a lone policeman with a solitary wireless tried desperately to find out if the road ahead was safe for cars. #tsunami 4/n

A sliver of my brain is still trapped in Rajesh Bhaiyya's Maruti Omni, in which over a dozen of us began the race to reach Port Blair in complete darkness, cutting through Jarawa territory and frequent aftershocks, with my mother chanting "Sita Ram" all the way. #tsunami 5/n

The earth giving way under your feet. Gaps opening up and people floating away on their own private islands. Waking up in the middle of the night, and running in reflex action. And body bags. Hundreds of yellow body bags. This is what the montage in my brain looks like. 6/n

The montage also includes random acts of kindness. Like Rajesh Bhaiyya's family that gave us blankets and food as we camped on the airport lawns, waiting for the government to evacuate us. Or the small shopkeepers who continued to sell things at fair price. #tsunami

But the real nightmare began after we returned to safety. It wasn't PTSD. It was something more visceral. I think it was ... guilt. At having gotten special treatment, a priority pass to life, just because we were #tourists. #tsunami 10/n

At the age of 21, I did the only thing I knew to process all that guilt. I wrote about our escape. A small publisher from Kolkata brought it out as a book. It was the most meaningful thing of my life till that point. #tsunami 11/n

But as I grew older, I disowned the book. I was ashamed of its mawkishness, its many typos and bad production. I erased it from my CV. I never talked about it with anyone. I hurriedly changed the topic when someone said they'd spotted a copy in some book fair. #tsunami 12/n

Today, as I grapple with a different kind of disquiet in my mind, I realise I was wrong. That book was not meant to have CV value. Its purpose was to cleanse my 21-year-old brain. It was proof that writing your heart out (like no one's reading) really can heal. #tsunami 13/n

2 scenes keep playing in my head in a loop. Villagers kneeling outside their homes and praying - howling - all along our journey from Rangat to Port Blair. And an old man in the Chouldari relief camp chanting "Allah" all night as he kept vigil over us tourists. #tsunami #16/n

I found the words to heal myself. I hope some of those people did too. #tsunami n/n

Since this story has got so much love, wanted to add a quick postscript. 1. When the first temors hit us, I discovered something about humans: When death stares at you, your first instinct is to run. You don't wait for mother, son, friend, anyone. That kicks in later. #tsunami