In the end, the flood became more than just a natural disaster. It was a test, a trial by water, one that left scars but also strengthened the fabric of Kashmir society, writes Muhammad Nadeem about floods and his desperation to return to his home library
I remember the smell of rain. In Kashmir, rain does not just fall—it descends like a conversation long overdue. The scent of damp earth and the soft drumming on rooftops were, for us, signs of a valley alive.
In the year 2014, however, the rain was not kind. It was relentless, as if nature had stored up all her fury and was now ready to unburden herself. By the time the Jhelum swelled like an angry deity, it was not just the river that overflowed—our lives were beginning to drown with it.
A Steady Start
It started innocently enough, as these things do. A week of steady rain, a swollen river, and murmurs of rising water levels in streets and water bodies. The sky, usually a canvas of azure punctuated by cotton-wool clouds, turned an ominous slate grey. For days, the heavens wept incessantly, as if mourning some cosmic tragedy. Little did we know that the tragedy was yet to unfold, right here on our soil.
But we, Kashmiri to the bone, had seen such rains before, and so, when the news trickled in about floods in other parts of the Vale, we kept on with our lives—prayers, tea, gossip. By September 5, the Jhelum had already swallowed hundreds of villages, rice fields were destroyed, and apple orchards were turned into wastelands. Still, we believed that we would be spared. This was Srinagar. The Jhelum could not hurt her own.
My father, a man whose conditions had taught him to weather many storms, gazed out with a mixture of awe and trepidation. “This is not normal,” he muttered, more to himself than to anyone else.
By September 7, the water had entered the heart of Srinagar, and that is when the illusion shattered. I remember the day with the clarity of a nightmare etched into a waking memory.
My home in Gungbugh, constructed only four years earlier, was no longer a refuge but a prison of rising water. As the river breached its embankments, the streets turned into canals, and then into rivers of their own. We had no choice but to leave. A shikara came to rescue us, as absurd as it was—gondolas on city streets, as though we had transformed overnight into some eerie version of Venice.
Refuge Preferences
My parents and brother decided to head to Hawal, where my grandparents lived. It seemed the safer choice. But for reasons as complicated as familial love, I chose to stay with my aunt, Ifra Ji, and her husband, Khalo Ji, in Dalgate. They had been my second parents during my early years, caring for me as their own before they were blessed with children. The bond between us ran deeper than blood. And because Khalo Ji had a modest book collection.
I was not ready for what the flood would do to me, though. The city I knew like the back of my hand had become an alien landscape, both beautiful and terrifying in its transformation. Houses peeked out from the water like drowning giants, their windows reflecting the grey sky like mournful eyes. At first, there was the pragmatic distraction of survival.
Rescue Operations
The water was still rising, inch by inch, and we needed to make sure we had enough food, clean water, and essentials. For days, we huddled in Ifra Ji’s house, helping others when we could. Shikaras and makeshift rafts fashioned out of petrol barrels and even wooden stuff replacing cars and buses became the only mode of transport. People moved like ghosts in a city that no longer resembled itself.
During the day, I ventured out with other volunteers to help with rescue operations. The main road at the petrol pump near Jan Bakery became our base of operations. We worked from dawn to dusk, rowing through the submerged streets, calling out to trapped residents, and ferrying supplies to those who could not or would not leave their homes.
The scenes we encountered were heart-wrenching. Elderly couples stranded on rooftops, young mothers clutching infants as they waded through chest-deep water, shopkeepers watching helplessly as their livelihoods floated away. Amidst this despair, there were moments of incredible human spirit. I saw neighbours forming human chains to rescue trapped families, strangers sharing their last morsels of food, and children finding joy in the most unlikely places – treating the flooded streets as giant swimming pools, their laughter a defiant echo against the disaster.
But the flood, as destructive as it was, did not only affect the body; it began gnawing at my mind, and my heart. As the days passed, all I could think about were my books.
My Books
My books were my life. Over a thousand volumes, collected over a decade, with money earned from years of labouring in various jobs. I worked as a salesperson few months at Golden House, a cosmetic shop in Hyderpora, for a year at Star Ply House at Lal Chowk, and finally five years at Apple Valley Book Shop in Goni Khan. Every rupee I saved went toward books.
I was not interested in clothes or luxuries. Books were my refuge, my sanctuary in a world that had often been unkind. With a heavy heart, I turned away from my books, whispering a silent prayer for their safety. Little did I know that this would be the beginning of a heart-wrenching vigil that would consume my thoughts in the days to come.
During my teenage years, when Kashmir burned and bled when curfews became the rhythm of our days and the sound of gunfire the lullaby of our nights, my books kept me alive. They gave me windows into worlds where the only thing that bled was ink, and the only wars fought were on paper.
But now, as I sat in Dalgate, helpless and hopeless, I could do nothing but pray. I prayed to Allah during every salah to protect my books. I prayed with a fervour that surprised even me, for it wasn’t just paper and ink I was asking Him to save—it was my very soul.
Visiting My Library
I still remember the moment I could not take it any longer. The water had receded just a little, enough for me to consider the impossible: a journey back to Gungbugh. I had to know if my books had survived. I set out early in the morning, the streets of Dalgate still damp but passable. Crossing into Lal Chowk, however, was like entering another world. The Jhelum had overflowed completely, and the roads were submerged, some up to six feet of water. I was pointed toward an alternate route, across the Radio Kashmir bridge.
It took me an hour to walk what should have been a ten-minute journey. My heart pounded in my chest as I crossed through Zero Bridge and Polo View, each step bringing me closer to home but also closer to the fear that awaited me.
At Jahangir Chowk, I waded through five feet of water. By the time I reached Tengpora, my legs were shaking from the effort and the rising tide of panic. I had no way of knowing if the house would still be standing if the flood had spared even a corner of my sanctuary.
An Arduous Trek
When I finally reached the outskirts of Gungbugh, my worst fears seemed confirmed. The roads were slick with mud, and the earth was swallowed by water. Houses that once stood proud were now half-drowned in the deluge. And yet, driven by some force I still cannot name, I pressed on. The closer I got to my house, the harder it became to move. My feet sank into the mud, the weight of my fears dragging me down. But I kept walking. I had to.
The moment I saw my home, my heart stopped. The front gate was still submerged in two feet of mud. There was no way to open it. In a moment of madness, I scaled the wall, flinging myself over the top like a desperate man. The yard was a swamp, the ground a soupy mess of mud and debris. But the house—the house was still standing. I ran to the window, not daring to hope but unable to stop myself. And there, through the glass, I saw them. My books. Safe. Untouched.
The relief that washed over me at that moment was more powerful than the flood that had tried to take everything. I could not help but laugh at the absurdity of it all. Here I was, surrounded by a disaster of biblical proportions, rejoicing over the survival of my book collection.I stood there for what felt like hours, staring at those shelves, at the volumes that had carried me through the darkest times of my life. They had survived. We had survived.
In the weeks that followed, as the water finally drained from the city and people began to return to what was left of their homes, I returned to mine. The first thing I did was run to my books, hugging them as if they were old friends who had come back from the dead. I kissed the covers and whispered prayers of gratitude. All that was lost was a small trunk with ten years’ worth of journals. But even that loss seemed insignificant compared to the joy of finding my books intact.
The Net Outcome
The flood took so much from us that year. Homes, livelihoods, lives. The streets of Srinagar were littered with the wreckage of what once was. But it gave me something too—a reminder of what truly mattered. The bonds we build, the love we carry, the memories we cherish—they are what survive, even when the waters rise. And as I stood there, surrounded by the pages that had saved me so many times before, I knew that I had been spared. Not just my books, but my spirit.
My books, which had survived against all odds, became more than just possessions. They were a testament to resilience, a reminder that even in the darkest times, knowledge and imagination can provide a lifeline.
In the end, the flood became more than just a natural disaster. It was a test, a trial by water, one that left scars but also strengthened the fabric of our lives. For me, it was a reminder that no matter how high the waters rise, we can rise higher. We can endure.
For in Kashmir, where beauty and tragedy have long walked hand in hand, we have learned that life, like the mighty Jhelum, always finds a way to flow on. And we, the children of this troubled paradise, will continue to write our stories on the pages of history, come flood or shine.
