Candies and Chaos: How 2014 Flood changed everything overnight

It was in Qamarwari first, where a relative asked: “Tohi chuvi pazee karun khandar” (Are you really going to go ahead with the function?)

This was the first time where I started getting a little worried about the “auspicious occasion”. The job, however, was done and I returned to my home situated barely half a kilometre away from the city centre, Lal Chowk.

By then, Facebook timeline was awash with scary scenes. The flash-flood videos had started surfacing from different parts of the valley. Having no idea about upcoming calamity, I continued crushing candies on my android phone.

And then, the floodgates started opening in Srinagar.

A friend’s elder brother called one evening, sounding fretful, to enquire, if I would be willing to accompany them to their electronic store at Rambagh. The area was very near to the flood channel and they wanted to make sure that their stock is kept on the shelves away from the floor.

We returned home and the candy crushing continued. Facebook was getting distressing. All one could see were the posts mentioning the water levels at different spots around Jhelum.

Deep down I had this hope that our area wouldn’t be touched by the natural calamity. It was well within the range of Red Square — known to get flooded by political storms only.

But that fall was different. The old reputations were about to end. And the new normal was about to unleash itself.

However, before it unleashed itself, the elders were talking about the resilience of the place. It was this hope that made me fall asleep, before my cellphone rang up at a godforsaken hour of the night.

That call was scary. It was just a matter of time now. The water was running wild. And Srinagar was up—hoping against hope. The caller was my friend’s brother who was also my neighbour. He requested if I could accompany him again to his store, as there were very high chances of the store getting flooded.

I grabbed my glasses and began accompanying my neighbour from Basant Bagh towards Lal Chowk.

In the heart of the city, the crisis was already unfolding. I saw many traders draped in shawls, directing their staff to take out the stock from the stores. They had sensed the calamity. The invading Jhelum was about to muck everything.

That night, many hawkers were grabbing their stock in blue-bags and running for safety. It was a desperate situation for everyone. Perhaps, Srinagar was never so unsettled by the troubled waters before.

Amid those chaotic scenes, a white Tata Sumo came to a screeching halt before us.

We greeted the passengers. They were trembling with fear. They said in unison, “Waen kya karov” (What should we do now?)

I could sense it from their faces that they had already lost all the hopes. They were our neighbouring shop owners. For the community that consoled and comforted each other in trying times and nightmarish situations unleashed by political situations of decadal conflict, this was a nature’s wrath.

And despite being crisis managers, Kashmiris were simply clueless about the calamity. That’s why hearts were pounding like never before.

With these troubling scenes, we reached our destination. It was a haunting night, which was gradually heading towards the deadly dawn.

The stock that was earlier kept on the shelves was now being taken to the upper floors of the building. But while I was lending a helping hand, I received a call from my cousin.

Such calls made the September 2014 a haunting period for our collective memory.

The caller was panting. Jhelum flowing nearby his residence had reached its brimming point. His family had abandoned everything. They were coming to take refuge in our home.

Before that anxious autumn, Kashmiris would arrive as nighttime visitors to their kin’s home in wake of situational uncertainties. But what we were staring that night was simply overwhelming. Even past practice of living on the edge in the region like Kashmir served no hope.

Unable to gather myself, I welcomed my cousin with shivering lips.

A few more rounds upstairs and we could now feel our slippers in water. On our left was Natipora belt which was a regular flood hit area, and on our right was the road leading to Jehangir Chowk which was already under water.

“Aes Haa Mokley Saeri”—we all are doomed—was what the driver murmured while starting the vehicle. Just in few minutes, the water reached above my shins and I knew that I was not going to survive.

The driver asked us to pray, for his vehicle shouldn’t stop in the middle of the water. In that event, there wasn’t any escape. But thank god, we survived the waves that were hitting our vehicle.

Upon reaching Bakshi Stadium, we saw a catastrophe running towards us and we took a U-turn and took the Wazir Bagh-Ragbagh route. All I could think of, at the moment, was the face of my mother who was still unaware of what I was going through at the moment.

Upon reaching Ragbagh, I saw a waterfall flowing towards my school, New Era. Jhelum was already overflowing. I somehow managed to reach home and bowed before Almighty in gratitude.

The next morning, people started gathering around the Gaw Kadal Gate which connect the waters of Jhelum with Dal Lake via Tchoont Kol. They were not able to take a decision about opening the gate.

Just half an hour later, the water overflowed and entered the canal anyway. The water got directed to the PDD office, Basant Bagh. And then it escaped from back side of the building via big holes which had formed by the pressure of the water.

Our road was finally under water and people started gathering the household products, including us.

While elders were shifting their stock and stuff to safer zones, children started riding bicycles on submerged streets. It was a whole new experience for them.

Day passed like that and I thought this was all about it. But just then, we noticed a slight rise in the road water level. Even before we could make any decisions, we saw some non-local families running towards the local community hall, screaming: “Bhaiya makaan doob gaya!”

We knew that the community hall wasn’t a safe place either. So, we grabbed their stuff and shifted them to our home, without thinking about any future course of action.

Just before I could get the remaining stuff I encountered water on the stairs. It was time to save my family now.

Luckily, we had a backdoor and we could leave. The first stop that came in everyone’s mind was my ancestral home. We took the kids and patients and rushed to our place. We brought some locks along to lock the house, but to our surprise the lanes were already under water.

It was me, my uncle and a neighbour who formed a human chain and got the job done. We were now six families at our home now.

That night, I saw Jhelum and Dal Lake hugging each other in the lawns of our local Masjid. Amid those scenes, distressing reports were coming from many areas—Rajbagh, Natipora, Bemina, HMT, and many more. And therefore, we decided to shift to my father’s office situated on Kohi-Maran.

It was certain that if the water reached the hillock housing revered saint, then Srinagar would be doomed. So, we left home, in a group consisting of elders, children and infants. It was when I realised that nothing in this world is important than our family.

The houses, the conveniences and the gadgets seemed like liabilities at that moment. Some of us had picked up stoves, while some blankets. Those who couldn’t bear much had made sure that they at least carried something that we might need in the refugee life that we were going to spend for an uncertain period of time.

Right from Fateh Kadal till Hari Parbat, the community kitchens—Langars—were installed by locals. They were not just food stalls, but symbols of brotherhood and bravery. And courtesy was unconditionally yours, Downtown Srinagar.

We finally reached my father’s office. The world there was entirely different. Apart from many other blessings we had there, we had a phone connection which I think was the best of all.

We spent a fortnight there, while visiting our house daily. The rumours were making rounds on the social media. And Kashmir was grappling with an unprecedented crisis.

Like everything else that fall, the “auspicious occasion” at home also took a backseat.