Breadcrumbs and the Flood

Breadcrumbs on my bed were the first things that came into focus as I woke up. Fluffy and gnarly at the same time, and stale –they could a day old, two days maybe. Who knows?

The phone rang shrill into my ear; it was lying next to my head, discarded and, incorrectly I had thought, in silent mode. I'd never liked answering phone calls; just the idea of calling someone seemed so demanding, so entitled.

A name from back in the day flashed on the screen though. Here’s a person who hasn’t demanded in a while, so he was overdue, and so I answered.

“Mmm?”

“Good, you picked up. Check your twitter.”

No surprise so far –Abhishek had lived for his Twitter before living on Twitter had become legit.

"I’ve shared a link to Ijaz’s family’s coordinates in Srinagar. Retweet them. ASAP ok? He’s wild with worry. Hasn’t been able to get in touch with them since yesterday night.”

Right, the flood in Kashmir, I remembered scanning the papers yesterday—it had been an exceptionally dry monsoon in Delhi though, so I hadn’t cared.

But, a stray thought niggled at me -- Why had Ijaz called to tell me?

Sure, we hadn’t spoken much since his marriage. Sure, I had ignored his call the last time he was in town. Sure, I hadn’t ringed back either. It made me mad nonetheless.

If I were honest, I'd admit I was less pissed off and more panicked. In emergencies, you called friends for help; if you don’t, does that mean you’re not friends anymore?

“Of course I’ll re-tweet,” I replied. And I did –immediately. It’s just one click.

Abhishek and I spoke for another minute during which he told me all the things Ijaz should have: His mother and father were stuck in the attic of their 3-floor-bungalow in Srinagar for days. By the time the army rescued them, the pair had run out of food; his father was injured, last he heard it wasn’t serious though. His sister was safe in Delhi, but his cousins hadn’t been heard from in days.

I couldn’t get the image of Ijaz’s parents out of my mind. His father, a rounded 6-footer, and his mother a shy slouching woman who gave off the ‘still a bride’ vibes.

Were they sitting on their haunches in that dank attic? How terrifying it must be to stare anxiously at the river barreling through their dainty rose garden and cobblestone driveway.

Checking my Twitter, I saw my retweet had gotten no further than my page. It became harder and harder to lie on my soft, springy mattress. The fresh conditioned breeze became stifling; the fur-lined blanket I used to guard against the air’s slight bite looked as obscene as it was. My friend was in need, and he hadn’t reached out to me. I should speak with him.

His ringtone was a Hindi-movie song. “You are my hunny bunny,” crooned a melodious voice as my fingers rapidly tapped on my knee.

“Hello…Yes?” He sounded exhausted.

“Ijaz, it’s mm..me, Boppy,” I speak quickly and so I stutter.

“I heard about your family; I’m so sorry.”

“Yes, yes... Boppy!”
 
“Is there anything I can do to help?”

“Well…” his hesitation was a dagger to my heart. So that’s why he hadn't informed me… he didn't believe I could help.

“See, basically,” he started with that matter-of-fact tone of a person who had repeatedly been telling his tale of tragedy.

“They were near Dal Lake. Last we heard my cousin Ali was with them, and the army had evacuated them to a hospital near the Lake. That’s what we knew yesterday.”

He sighed, I remained quiet. So far, only I knew he was right: I couldn't help.

“But the phones are down. I don’t know what’s going on there. Abba has a heart condition; you remember, don’t you? He might have run out of his medicine and then… ”

“Wait, let me check with people I know in Srinagar,” I said hoping to inject some light hope into the dark promise his voice makes.

Immediately, I called another friend—a journalist who writes about the Army. “Karan!” I cried as he picked up. If there’s anyone in my circle who could help, who would know what’s going on, it would be him.

“Listen, I know you’re probably getting calls left, right,” I began.

“Yaar, Bops, give me their names. I’ll try. But I don’t know. The situation there is bad right now yaar. They’re throwing rocks at the army; Dal lake is flooding. No one knows what the fuck is going on. I can’t promise.” He blurted this out before I could say anymore –he sounded irritated at being asked like I was being entitled to try.

The asshole, I thought.

“Their names are Nagma and Ahmed Khan; they were picked fr---”

“Just text me the details, na. I’m on my way to the Army chief’s to figure out more.” He was curt, collected. He had friends in the Army; he had friends in Srinagar; he had friends who were looking for their families. But he had no family there, so he can afford calm.

I turned my TV on.

Images of water walls hurling themselves at mosques, pounding into white brick buildings, of shikaaras floating despondently rider-less on what used to be streets flooded my eyes and brain. Even on a screen, the angry power of overflowing water petrified me.

“I’ve asked a friend to find out. Will let you know soon.” I texted Ijaz. I checked my Twitter one more time—no retweets.

I knew neither Rahul nor Ijaz would call me back. I knew I wouldn't have anything to say to them either. The TV stayed on; the river continued to flood, and I lay back down.

The flip side to sadness

Ashtrays are filled with smashed-out cigarettes; floor is ubiquitous with junk food wrappings. Knocks on your door go unanswered, tear stained sheets remain unchanged- to find in yourself a spark of interest in something has become an impossible task. Depression turns its sufferer into an emotional black hole. You live surrounded by a virtual moat of very real, mind-numbing sorrow. It leaves little room for anyone else or anything else.

If the urge to hide under your bed, behind locked doors and away from anything that grates at your oyster-shell of sadness, is overcome, you may convince yourself to call a friend. Or if you’re very lucky, your friends may notice your bouts of agoraphobia and call you, literally, out on it.

When your friends ring, you will find yourself unable to focus on what they are saying. You may ring them, but at the slightest hint of them being distracted, you’ll rush back behind that moat. The tragedy here isn’t that you are unable to find comfort in the people that surround you; rather, it is that they lose you, who could have been of some comfort to them.

The friends that ring you may have their own worries: dismissive spouses, dealings with death, career conundrums, parenting anxiety. You, however, will hear none of this. Since even the word love reminds you of your last heartbreak, you will not hear the fear in your friend’s voice when she talks about her up-coming nuptials. Since you’ve long decided you’ve got none, you will not hear how afraid your friends are of the future. The voices of your demons will drown any chances of empathising with those around you, who are also going through a tough time.

Your goddaughter’s birth, your friends’ hard-earned successes: What should be moments of jollity, moments you should celebrate, transform into voodoo pins digging into your heart. You will find yourself unable to participate wholly in someone else’s happiness, because all you can see is a life moving on while yours sinks in a quicksand of sorrow. In the meantime, the people around you will go on, living their lives like the roller coaster that it is. You, however, will remain stuck; numb from the effort of not feeling anything, you’ll have pushed yourself into a corner further dimmed by bitterness.

The saddest part about being sad isn’t that you float through loneliness, or having gnawed lips from holding back tears, or wishing for someone to lean on. It’s the narcissism that sorrow encourages in you. It becomes hard to see beyond your life, your hopes and how they were dashed. The worst part about crying is that it clouds your vision, and so causes you to reject any and all moments that could have held those tears at bay.