Tryst with the Titanic

Advaita is 12 years old and is studying in 8th Standard at Malvern International  School, Hong Kong. Advaita loves reading and writing among a host of other interests. She articulates her opinions with no holds barred.

                                TRYST WITH THE TITANIC 

 That fateful night on the RMS Titanic was one of the most beautiful I had ever seen: the sky without a single cloud to mar the perfect brilliance of the stars. Although the waters were calm, I lay awake, unable to sleep. Occasionally, I would hear the click-clack of a staff member’s heels as they patrolled the long corridors or the sounds of the colossal engines humming below. The floorboards of the cabin creaked. The constellations glittered in the night. The waves crashed against the hull. And it was in that moment, that very second, that I realized something was terribly wrong.

A jolt threw me off my bunk, and I landed on the cold floor, inches away from my mother’s terrified face. My father and brother were up now, exchanging wary glances with each other, looking as perplexed as I felt. “It has stopped.” Mother said, putting on her coat. “The engine noises have stopped.” Slowly, my father walked towards the wooden door, and was catapulted backward as it was blasted open.

A man stood there, holding a lantern by his shoulder. He seemed to be an officer, panting heavily as he motioned for us to leave the cabin. “Come above deck with your lifebelts,” he said gruffly, before leaving to bang on other doors. We hastened to change out of our nightgowns, shivering while climbing up the stairs. The wind howled as more passengers arrived, anxiously whispering with one another. 

A sudden rush of light came from the forward deck, along with a long, hissing roar. As my family turned around, three rockets leaped into the sky. Up they went, higher and higher, creating an explosion that seemed to split the night in two. Everyone knew, without being told, what a rocket at sea meant: the Titanic was calling for help from any nearby ships. “Sir,” I asked a nearby steward curiously. “What is happening? Why are we calling for help?” Just as I finished my question, a horrible screech echoed through the liner. Although slightly alarmed, no one knew that the starboard side had suffered a blow from an iceberg, breaching six of the Titanic’s sixteen compartments.

By this time, most crew members were in the lifeboats, escorting women and children in first class. My father and brother were nowhere to be found. Mother and I picked up our gowns and ran, panting all the way to Boat 17. “Ma’am, please step in carefully, there’s no rush,” a crew member reassured me, helping my mother get in first. Just as I was about to sit down, an earth-shattering tremor shook the ship, ferociously throwing me into the freezing depths of the North Atlantic.

A feeling I had never experienced before shot through my body, and I was unable to move. It was as if shards of ice were piercing every inch of my skin, waiting for my body to surrender, waiting for me to succumb. “Help!” I cried, through gasps of air. “Help me, somebody!”

Alas, my pleas joined the ones that would never be answered.