The Sorrows of Bihar
Before I went to Bihar I knew little about embankments. I had seen levees in California, in the Sacramento–San Joaquin Delta and in the Central Valley. There, if you stand on an embankment on one side of the river, you can look across and see a matching embankment. Some have been set back from the river a half of a mile or so; but even then it is easy to grasp in a glance the relatively linear triad of a river and its pair of embankments. The first embankment I saw in Bihar after miles of bumping along in the back seat of a gray Tata Sumo SUV in the April heat was a steep-sided loaf of sand, maybe twelve feet above the adjacent land. I scrambled to the top and looked around. The Kamla River glared below, reflecting a hazy but intense sun. It flowed lazily between the embankment and a wide stretch of sand a few inches above the water. Together the water and the sandbank narrowed as they receded into the distance. I didn’t see another embankment. I was disoriented by the incessantly jarring ride and the heat, but I recall asking where the other embankment was. A gesture directed my eyes toward the horizon of low trees and brush and sandy soil. Nothing was very distinguishable in the monochromatic haze of dust and heat. Over the next two days my eyes and brain continued to struggle in vain to make sense of what I was seeing by comparing the north Indian state of Bihar to California. California rivers are powerful and can flood portions of the flat Central Valley, but they are in no way comparable to the rivers that rush out of the towering Himalaya. The Sierra Nevada ranges from five to twelve thousand feet. At twelve thousand feet in the Himalaya, one is still in the “middle hills,” where in spring there are forests of rhododendron trees blooming.