After the waters of 2013: how the valley remembers

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Namaste. Welcome to the last sitting of this series. Sit comfortably. Take a breath, and let it go slowly.

Over four sittings we have walked a long way together. We heard the Shiva Purana's story of Nara and Narayana, praying for the good of all. We heard the hills' story of the Pandavas and the five Kedars. We followed Adi Shankaracharya to the snows. And we walked the path from Gaurikund, and watched the year of Kedarnath turn with the seasons.

Today we speak about something harder. In the monsoon of 2013, great floods came down the Kedarnath valley. Many people lost their lives. Many families in the valley and across India still carry that loss. We will speak about it plainly and gently, with respect for those who died and for those who remember them. If this is a difficult subject for you, please listen in your own time, or come back to it later.

Let us first say simply what happened, as far as it is known.

In the monsoon of that year, very heavy rain fell over the upper Mandakini valley for several days, at a time when the yatra was full and many pilgrims were on the path. Above Kedarnath, there was a small lake at the foot of a glacier, called Chorabari, which some people know as Gandhi Sarovar. With the rain and the melting snow, the lake broke through its bank.

Water, mud and great boulders came down through the town of Kedarnath, and on down the valley, through the settlements along the footpath, through Gaurikund, and far below. Whole places along the path, like Rambara, were largely washed away. Roads and bridges were lost across the region. Rivers in other parts of Uttarakhand also rose, and many other villages suffered too.

Thousands of people lost their lives. They were pilgrims from every part of the country. They were also people of the valley: porters, pony handlers, shopkeepers, priests, cooks, and the young men who carry elders up the path in baskets. Many were never found. The official numbers differ, and we will not give one here, because each of them was a person, with a name and a family.

Then came the rescue. Soldiers, air force crews, police, disaster teams and a great many local people worked for days, in rain and on broken ground, to bring people to safety. Helicopters flew again and again into the valley. Villagers opened their homes and shared food with strangers. Many thousands of people were brought down alive. Some of those who helped lost their own lives while doing it.

When people who were there tell the story, they often speak first of these helpers. A stranger who gave them a blanket. A soldier who carried their mother. A family in a village who fed them for three days. It is right that we remember them too.

Now let us speak about the temple.

When the waters had passed, most of the buildings around the Kedarnath temple had been destroyed or buried. The temple itself was still standing. It is built of large, heavy stone slabs, fitted closely together, on a raised platform, as we heard in the first sitting. Its sanctum was filled with mud and debris, and it had to be cleaned with great care before worship could begin there again.

Just behind the temple, a large rock had come to rest. Many devotees believe that this rock turned the water aside and shielded the temple. They call it Bhim Shila, after Bhima of the Pandavas, whom we met in the second sitting. Today pilgrims touch it, place flowers on it, and bow to it.

We share this as what devotees believe. We do not claim it as a miracle, and we do not argue against it. People who study rivers and rock have their own ways of explaining how the flood moved. Devotees have their own way of understanding it. Both can be held with respect, side by side, the way we held the Purana's story and the hills' story in the first sitting.

What happened to the worship?

For a time, the worship of Kedarnath was carried on at Ukhimath, at the Omkareshwar temple, the same winter seat we heard about in the last sitting. Then, after the sanctum at Kedarnath was cleaned and the proper rites were performed, worship at the temple itself began again. The rhythm of the year, going up and coming down, continued.

People who were in the valley in the following spring remember the day the palki of Kedarnath was carried up the mountain again, along a path that was still broken in places. The drums played, the villagers walked alongside, and the doors opened. For many families who had lost someone, it was a hard day and a comforting one at the same time.

In the years since, a great deal of rebuilding has taken place. Protective walls were built along the river. The footpath from Gaurikund was laid on a new line, since parts of the old path were gone. New shelters and facilities were built for pilgrims. And, as we heard in the third sitting, a new memorial to Adi Shankaracharya now stands behind the temple.

But the deepest rebuilding happened in the families. In some villages of the valley, many households lost husbands, fathers and sons who had worked on the yatra. Women in those villages raised children, ran farms and kept homes going through years of grief. Many of those families still work on the yatra today. When you walk the path and meet a porter or a pony handler or a woman selling tea, you may be meeting someone whose family carries that memory. A kind word, a little patience in the queue, a thank you at the end of the path, these are small things, and they are noticed. It is one of the simplest ways a pilgrim can honour the valley that welcomes them every year.

How, then, does the valley remember?

It remembers quietly. There are memorials, and there are prayers on the anniversaries. But mostly it remembers in the way people speak. Local people often mark time as before the flood and after the flood. Pilgrims who come now walk a little more carefully, listen more closely to the weather, and treat the mountain with more respect.

If there is a lesson here, it is not a frightening one. The Himalaya is a young and living mountain range. Its rivers are powerful, and its weather is strong. Going there is a privilege, and it asks for humility and care. That is why, in the last sitting, we spoke so carefully about checking the weather advice, registering, looking after your health, and being willing to turn back.

Many people, after a loss like this, ask why. Why here, at a holy place, among people who came to pray? We will not pretend to have an answer. The traditions of this land have held that question for thousands of years, in many different ways, and they do not all say the same thing. What we can do is stay close to those who grieve, help where help is needed, and keep walking with care.

Let us take a moment of silence now, together, for all who lost their lives in the waters of 2013, pilgrims and people of the valley alike, and for those who worked to save others. If you wish, bow your head, or join your hands. If you pray, you may say a prayer of your own, silently.

Thank you.

Let us gather, one last time, what we have heard in this series.

Kedarnath began, the Shiva Purana says, with a prayer for others: two sages asking Shiva to stay for everyone who would ever come. The hills of Garhwal remember the Pandavas searching for grace, and the five Kedars spread across the mountains. Tradition remembers Adi Shankaracharya walking to these snows, and a memorial to him stands behind the temple. The year of Kedarnath goes up and comes down with the seasons. And the valley carries the memory of 2013 with grief, with gratitude for those who helped, and with care for those who still come.

One thing to take with you. Nara and Narayana prayed for people they would never meet. This week, remember in your prayer the people of the Kedarnath valley, the pilgrims on the path, and everyone who carries a loss you do not know about. Just one line, as we began.

This is the end of our series on Kedarnath. Thank you for walking with us, sitting by sitting. May your own path, wherever it leads, be walked with care. Namaste.

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• Listen: After the waters of 2013: how the valley remembers
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• All episodes of Kedarnath: the shrine in the snows