"It is a war," an old woman on the road cried as she saw fierce waters approaching, and submerging everything that came in the way. Water reaches the old mighty chinar a few metres away from my house. I watched from the window of my home in Srinagar, the capital of Indian-administered Kashmir. Soon there was no time to watch, no time to escape. Water gushes forth in the surrounding lanes and neighbourhoods. There was no option but to take refuge in the attic. My mother asked me to pack my 'valuables', and as I entered my room on the ground floor, I was still in disbelief. And indecisive. I thought, 'what to pack and what to leave for the waters to wash away'? But there was no time to be indecisive or logical. I gathered whatever I could – books, documents, clothes, laptop, toothbrush, childhood photographs. Was I being stupid? Will there be a chance?
The pressure breaks open a crack in the floor of our sitting-room and water jets forth like a fountain. Walls, seemingly protective, could not bear. I took turns to watch from the window – people rushing to their houses, shopkeepers shuttering down their shops, some shouting, a few trying to stop the flow with sandbags and sundry. It was mayhem. Water reaches our porch where four kittens and their mother live in a small shelter. The mother looks horrified. I soon found myself helping my family carry essential supplies to the attic. My legs gave way. Water flows into our corridor. I don't know how much time it took for two levels of our house to submerge, but in my mind it felt like between seven and ten minutes.
'It is a war indeed', I told myself. Only more surreal. Our homes became rivers. Huddled together in the dusty attic under candlelight with all our belongings scattered on the floor, we watched the Jhelum flow by our houses, into our rooms. We watched dogs painfully drowning. The air smelled of gasoline and rot. We heard water roaring, dogs howling as they gazed at the sky. And silence. The view from the attic window evoked an apocalyptic imagery from a dream or some sci-fi film. I had to remind myself that this is real: we are flood-hit, and sitting in the attic that we dreaded as children because we thought all ghosts lived there – sometimes we mustered courage and would go up to collect empty bullet cartridges and peek through bullet holes.
All communication channels were down. Electricity cut off. Drinking water limited. Radio relayed only disturbance. TV networks were not operational. We developed a new compulsion – watching from the window. Window frames, medicine bottles, petroleum, balloons and plastic balls were floating in the flowing water. Night air was noxious. The cold night evoked disquiet from my childhood in the early 1990s when the mass armed movement for liberation from India broke out – still breaths, military blackouts, dogs barking on the desolate roads.