Growing up in India in the 1990s, Los Angeles was the land of adolescent dreams: Pamela Anderson in slow-motion, sun and sand and canyons and hills, beautiful people, and Hollywood, a neverland of light and shadow. Then I became an adult and moved to Los Angeles, and I saw it for what it really was—high taxes, insane traffic, unreally priced real estate, crazy regulations, and the part they skipped in the song "California Dreaming."

Fire.

I had just become an Angelino when I was woken up at 2 a.m. by the sounds of punches on the wooden door. Opening it, I found two LAPD officers screaming at me: You have to leave. NOW. Half-awake, I looked back to where they were looking, at the mountains at the back of my house, and there I saw it: flames leaping from the top, a line of fire as long as I could see, and smoke curling up from behind. I had no idea when I had been transported to Sauron's backyard in Mordor.

Blinded by fear and packing whatever I could within ten minutes, I drove out, not knowing where I was supposed to go. Okay, I will go to my office. I have a room there, and my family and I could stay the night, and that is a great idea. As I hit the road to work, there were fires on both sides, the wind carrying specks of smoldering embers, but at least there was no traffic. This was odd because even at 3 in the night, the opposite end of the road was chock-a-block with cars driving in the other direction.

At that moment, I realized why. I was driving straight to where the fire was raging. I swerved into oncoming traffic, and thankfully, other drivers let me in as I joined the crowd fleeing the fire. By five a.m., I found a hotel room, while I could see many others were turned away. We spent two days watching on TV as the Los Angeles Fire Department worked to save our neighborhood, and they did, for they are the finest.

Five years hence, as the Palisades fire engulfs Los Angeles and we live in the terror of peak fire season, I am more prepared now for living with fire but no less scared, for this is life in Los Angeles—ethereal beauty, one moment, one spark, one gust, and then it is Hell's Inferno.