When People Refuse to Sink

“Service to others is the rent you

pay for your room here on Earth.”

— Mohammad Ali

Punjab, a land known for its rivers, has been betrayed by them. The Ravi, Beas, Ghaggar and Sutlej, once lifelines, have turned hostile, swelling with relentless monsoon rains and the release of mountains of water from catchment dams in Himachal Pradesh. More than half of Punjab has been inundated in what is the worst flood disaster in decades. Fields that were merry and ready for harvest just weeks back lie submerged in knee-deep water, while water under bridges roars in torrents that make onlookers and motorists flinch. The roads above these bridges, national highways no less, resemble streams in which even SUVs are scared to swim, let alone drive through. For lakhs of families, their homes, livestock, shops and farms have been swallowed with little mercy and littler warning.

Amid the gore and misery, there are sights that are as ironic as they are iconic. Muslims and Punjabis in Pakistan have opened floodgates on their side of the border to ease the waters drowning India’s Punjab. It is an extraordinary gesture across a bitter border, as communities in Lahore and Kasur allow their own fields to be inundated so that their Indian brethren might breathe easier. At a time when the authorities wring their hands and declare relief work “impossible”, and funds for the work crawl through the sludge of ‘procedure’, help is coming from where it was least expected – from an enemy, from farmers, from singers and actors.

It is a paradox that defines the floods. The authorities, armed their blueprints, experts and funds, are paralysed. But everyday people—farmers, volunteers, madrasa students, SUV-owners and artists—are showing what resilience looks like. The catastrophe has laid bare not only the fury of the monsoon, but also contrasting human and institutional instincts.

Rivers Hostile, Fields Drown

The calamity is brutal. Punjab’s life-giver rivers have turned predators. In village after village, people are cut off from the main routes. Traffic, if it does exist, is crawling. Families are sleeping on rooftops, belongings tied in cloth bundles. Farmers are watching helplessly as apples, cauliflower and paddy are abandoned on highways or flung into ditches, not worth even transportation cost. Punjab, historically celebrated as India’s breadbasket, has been reduced to a state of helplessness.

Meanwhile, the knights in officialdom have discarded or hidden their shining armour. Engineers insist “no roadworks are possible” until waters recede. Bureaucrats mutter about “impractical conditions”. Relief funds remain frozen in files. Even urgent compensation for food, fodder and medicines is tied up in approvals. People despair that their elected representatives are watching from dry offices while villages are submerged.

On the ground, people are doing what the official machinery is not. In Ferozepur and Ropar, farmers and shopkeepers work 24x7, piling mud and sandbags by hand to strengthen embankments. In Mansa and Patiala, villagers have fashioned makeshift roads with tractors, planks and ropes, creating muddy paths to ferry foodgrain, milk and medicines into cut-off hamlets. “Technically impossible,” officials said. Local people have disagreed, and got to work with whatever tools and implements they have.

A Patchwork of Heroes

Help has come from unexpected quarters. Thousands of tractor trolleys from Haryana and Rajasthan have brought in people and supplies into Punjab. Madrasa students from within 200 kilometres have arrived in groups to distribute food, blankets and medicines. Modified SUVs—so often challaned by traffic police—make up a bulk of the vehicles that have been able to wade through submerged lanes, their raised suspensions proving lifesaving.

Celebrities have joined in. Diljit Dosanjh, Amy Virk and Gippy Grewal have mobilised funds for relief material. Karan Aujla has donated a motorboat costing lakhs, enabling relief volunteers to reach stranded families in Ajnala and Fazilka. Bollywood actors Sonu Sood and Vicky Kaushal have jumped in, ferrying supplies and refusing applause. Popular folk singers are holding concerts, ticket payments being made directly to relief organizations. Across the barbed wire of Punjab’s western border, villagers in another country are helping Punjab ward off further devastation.

Religious institutions have been anchors. Gurudwaras across the state have thrown open their doors, as always, serving langar day and night. Khalsa Aid, The Kalgidhar Trust and local NGOs have handed out mosquito nets, fodder, medicines, drinking water and sanitary napkins. These are not symbolic gestures—they are the reason thousands are managing to stay alive, with a modicum of dignity.

The Hills are Suffering Too

Close to Punjab, Himachal Pradesh and Uttarakhand, though not the focus of this calamity, are being punished too. Relentless rain has caused landslides, washed away roads and stranded tourists. Hotels in Shimla, Manali and Mussoorie are empty. Markets shut down early; lifts echo with gallows humour. “Ab kuchh shubh nahin hai Himachal mein (There’s nothing auspicious in Himachal anymore),” a lady said in Shimla, after wondering out aloud whether the public lift she was in would make it to the top. Uttarakhand’s apple-growers, like their counterparts in Punjab and Himachal Pradesh, are watching their crops rotting as blocked highways make transport impossible.

But it is Punjab that is facing the brutal brunt of the monsoons. The dam-induced inundation is man-made—someone high up, elevated by the hills or official designation, got an itchy finger and pressed the button to open up the water release gates too long, turning what should have been a controlled flow of water in the hills into a catastrophe in the plains. The greatest anger in Punjab today is not directed at the rivers or the rains, but at officialdom. Relief funds have been announced, but scantily delivered. Rehabilitation packages are scurrilously missing. Farmers waiting for compensation are tired of speeches and no action or solution. “Empty words are nothing. We need money to live through today,” a villager in Moga said.

The authorities have dragged their feet, some citing ‘assessment procedures’. In normal times, such procedures may be defensible, or taken with a pinch of salt. In a flood situation, they seem laced with deadly intent. Delay means more hunger, disease, despair, deaths. The paralysis is not accidental; it is systemic. In the name of rules, the urgency of survival seems to have been forgotten.

Lives Ruined, Yet Ironies Persist

In Punjab and its nearby hills, reality is filled with despair. The few open shops down shutters by 4 pm. By 6, entire towns are in darkness. Hotels lie abandoned, tourist spots deserted, small businesses at breaking point. In Fazilka and Hoshiarpur, families are wondering how to repay loans when their fields are submerged. On hill roads, potholes have become large enough to make half a man disappear, and they appear every few metres. Landslides bless passing vehicles with rocks. Traffic jams stretch for miles, leading to flaring tempers and fistfights. It is a jungle out there.

Yet, after every 40-50 km of devastation, drivers lucky enough to be on the road, and not in it, reach toll plazas. Here, everything works perfectly. Cars neatly line up, machines beep without glitches, cards are read quickly and online payments accepted fast. It is surreal – disaster everywhere, but blemish-free efficiency where revenue is being collected. Particularly ironical are the liquor vends in the hills and on national highways—they are thriving. Stranded tourists crowd the counters, down bottles and dance to raucous music in the rain. Misery and defiance live side by side on flooded streets.

Amid the gloom, Punjab has not collapsed, as haven’t Himachal Pradesh or Uttaranchal. They are still standing, not because of the authorities but in spite of them. Villagers have become road-builders. Madrasa students have become aid workers. Celebrities have become couriers. Gurudwaras have become refugee camps. Those across a barbed border have become saviours.

The contrast couldn’t be starker. Where officialdom has hidden behind legalese and verbiage, ordinary people have entered waist-deep waters to pull strangers out of danger and to safety. It is this instinct, human and visceral, that is keeping these states alive. In the vacuum, ordinary people have done what they needed to, to help others and to survive themselves—take charge.

He can be reached on narayanrajeev2006@gmail.com. Views expressed are personal