Nearly six years ago now, I travelled through Tamil Nadu immediately after the tsunami of 2004. There was tragedy and reconstruction, the spirit of volunteers and the often haphazard nature of relief: but my abiding memory from those days is of disconnect.
The tsunami caused fierce destruction – there is no other word for it – on the coast of Tamil Nadu: lives snuffed out, houses destroyed, boats splintered. It was hard to look at and stomach. Yet if I went inland from the coast, in most cases no more than 100 metres, it was as if nothing had happened. 'Meals ready' boards tempted you into little eating houses, electricity flowed fine, Internet cafes let me blog about my experiences, people went about their lives exactly as usual. It was nearly surreal to sit down for dinner in this normalcy and recall the horrific sights of the day just past – sights that were often only a few minutes' walk away.
That kind of disconnect. Six years later, I feel it again, visiting Ladakh after the deadly flood of 5 August. The destruction I come across is extraordinary, horrific, as if a sudden small war has blown through. And yet, in places unaffected by the flood, there is utter normalcy. Memories of Tamil Nadu, in this spot all the way at the other end of the country.
Take Leh. There is essentially one main road that snakes through the city, from the peaceful northern reaches of Changspa through the bustle of the market and main tourist hangouts, where there are plenty of folks milling around visiting eateries or arranging tours or selling apricots. Less bustle than in normal times, I can sense, but bustle nevertheless. From there, the road follows a gentle downward slope, curves under an ornate welcome arch and round a sharp right turn still going downhill. And suddenly, the surroundings turn into what looks like a war zone, all the way to the airport.