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.

Random musings - my favorite past time

A friend and I bought journals the other day and like Camus, decided to write one interesting thing in there everyday. Just something we may notice about the world. Shortly afterwards, I came across a picture in the new scientist magazine - the link for it is http://www.newscientist.com/gallery/wildlife-through-the-lens/6 and I thought to myself - isn't it interesting that these fish should turn into something that they fear?

So here's my first entry into the first journal I've kept since I was sixteen:


Over the passage of time, the flight or fight instinct has been ground into the very essence of all living things. It has ensured that choices are made logically, and programmed us to pick those battles, we know we can win. Another way of saying this is - It teaches us that we must be afraid and what it is that we should fear. It's that way throughout the food chain, indiscriminately working its way to the top.

Given that this is the most primitive of genome codings, one would imagine that the more evolved the animal, the greater its power to manipulate its primordial urges. Conversely, one could trust in nature's wisdom and accept that fear is around for good reason, because perhaps it is. Then again, lots of things that are here for good reason can be shown expendable for better ones.

We may for instance realise what Columbus was trying to prove all along - There is no running away from anything; The universe is structurally designed to ensure that you end up where you started from.

Given that the universe, the earth and even we are all made out of the same basic matter, it is not strange that everything - the physical, the ethereal and emotional follow the same cyclical format of existence. For example, our souls re-incarnate to complete a cycle even as  our bodies serve as vessels to start another and so on...

Similarly emotions follow their own circular paths. If you give out love, you receive it; on the other end of that spectrum, detest a man and he will hate you right back. In that sense, fear is a more narcissistic emotion or parasitical (If one were to look upon fear as an external stimuli, which I don't.) While it may affect one's periphery very much in the manner that the moon affects the tides, it boasts for its victim (or itself) an eternal gnawing.

If we cannot banish our fears, we are always prisoners to them; in one way or another. Some may end up their slaves, forever living our lives to the tune of their wishes. So it may happen that we will never see an acrophobe at the top of the Eiffel Tower. A boy who fell off his bicycle one too many times, will never know the thrill of straddling a Harley. A girl who saw Jaws too early in life will never know the pleasure of swimming in the open sea.

Then there are those who may attempt to take a French leave from their fears. This too, can be a counterproductive route to go down. Such people may find that the farther they run, the closer they are to where they begun.

People who are afraid to admit that they are not children anymore, may run amuck rather than plant roots. Responsibility may escaped through day dreams or drug addictions or even hedonistic excitements, but constantly seeking frontiers too takes its toll. One sees such people everywhere, eyes jaded and faces old.

Men who are afraid of being alone, may try to distract themselves with wealth, power and the women that come along with it. Waking up next to a stranger, or at best, a siren, is essentially being alone. Similarly a woman whose scared of being fooled or getting hurt, may find herself unable to see clear toward sincerity. She may alienate herself against any chances of being loved. In essence, for her, everyday is a fresh heartbreak.

I suppose the problem is atomic, we seem to be built to chase our own tails. Still, we have also proved ourselves to be voracious learners blessed with the capacity to grow beyound what we personally know.

Perhaps, given this, and also the eternal nature of this same passage of time that taught us to fear; we will hear the 'Whooop!' of  a man who sees the arial view of Paris for the first time (It really is fantastic.) We will see the ying and the yang united by contentment and trust. People everywhere may decide to confront themselves and embrace their fates.

We may find, given the intricate weave that is space and time, that once this happens,  ripples are felt far and wide.

It may happen that those who feared ridicule and prejudice will bring into the light, their special powers or that those who have long feared oppression will stand united and taste victory. The possibilities are infinite when there is no fear limiting the horizon.