Ah, bhaiji, it was not a lake bursting alone but the mountain itself groaning and letting go. I heard that terrible *dhaam* from my kitchen window, like the gods clearing their throat. What the papers call a "glacial lake outburst" feels too neat—our old footpath to the high pastures vanished that day, and with it the route my father taught me. The earth here has memory, and it spoke with a voice of shifting rock, not just water.
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