The last picture you’ll ever take

Between 2014 and 2016, 76 people died clicking selfies in India — more than half the total number of such deaths reported worldwide during the same period. In 2017, at least 11 lives have been lost in selfie-related accidents in India. What explains this disturbing trend?

On a bright June evening in 2014, as the sun still shone above the high hill ranges of the north-western Himalayas, two buses were plodding down the road from Shimla to Manali, offering its passengers breathtaking —and at times unnerving— views of the landscape.

A group of 48 students from an engineering college in Hyderabad were travelling on these buses, accompanied by three faculty members and a tour guide. They were on their way to Manali to visit a hydroelectric plant as part of a 10-day industrial tour.

It had been a long and fatiguing day. A tyre on one of the buses had punctured frequently, and the drivers had accidentally locked up the students’ packed lunch in the boot. They were also upset with dropping Mathura and Amritsar from their itinerary, and cancelling a river rafting excursion.

The buses had crossed Mandi an hour ago. The narrow winding road, carved between the valley and the mountains, had now opened up a bit. In one spot, a few houses appeared on the slope of the hills, with a tiny tea stall perched by the roadside. On the other side, moss-green water shimmered as it flowed slowly between light-coloured rocks. The steep vertical incline of the grey-green mountains served as a backdrop, complementing and competing with the colour of the water.

It was beautiful and inviting.

The time was 6 pm, and they had well over an hour for sunset. They got off the buses.

Many of them walked down a narrow path that led them to the river-bed. Some tourists were taking pictures; some workers were loading sand into lorries. They stepped onto two small rocks and got on top of a big boulder that stood right in the middle of the water. It was the perfect spot for taking pictures— high, big enough to fit a bunch of them, and to top it all, you could capture the the hills and the water.

They deserved this after a bad day. They took pictures of each other, some selfies and ‘groupfies’ (group selfies). After 20 minutes of posing for pictures on top of the boulder, most were ready to go back to the bus. Some were still trying to get that one perfect shot.

With a couple of his friends, Raman Teja Venigalla had waded into the middle of the shallow stream. He lay down midstream, gazing at the Himalayas, as the ripples lulled him into a state of languor.

He was posing for a photo when he noticed that within a matter of seconds, the water level had risen. A few of the locals had gathered on the road above, and many others outside a house on the hill slope. They were all animated; furiously gesturing, shouting, and whistling at the students.

But the wind muffled their words. Raman thought he heard the word “dam” but couldn’t process what it implied.

Before they knew it, the water level rose over seven feet. It all happened in a matter of seconds. The flow was fast and the force tremendous. The stream narrowed where they stood before widening again, making the current so strong that walking out or even swimming to the shore seemed impossible. They knew they were in danger.

Raman hurried to get out. He got back on top of the big rock and looked for the two small rocks leading to the shore. By now, both were submerged. The water level rose to his chest. He literally took a leap of faith to where he thought one of the small rocks was. His judgement was correct, but he slipped off the smooth rock and fell into the ice cold water. His heart skipped a beat and he felt a chill to the bone.

Big waves were hitting him with great force. “I’m going to be swept away,” he thought to himself. He did not know how to swim.

All the 48 students knew each other very well. They had attended classes together, hung out inside and outside of college. Some of them had recently been on a trip to Chennai together. Some of them were best friends.

The ones on the shore ran along the stream to try to help their friends out. The ones in the water tried to form a chain to the shore by holding each others’ hands. Seeing how strong the current was, some students stayed put on the big rock. They assumed that the water would not reach them at the top of the boulder.

But, the waves were stronger than anticipated, and they were thrown off the boulder. Even as the currents swept them away, they held onto each other tightly.

Some of Raman’s friends could swim well, and took the responsibility of saving others. Muppidi Kiran Kumar saved four of his classmates. But, eventually, he grew too tired to fight the force of water, and was unable to swim back to the shore to save his own life.

Meanwhile, Raman, cold and tired by now, tried reaching land but could not get his right foot, wedged between two rocks, out. Fortunately, this also kept him from being swept away. And then, he heard somebody shout his name. Raman looked up, and saw his friend Biswas Nandamuri stretching his right hand out to him. He grabbed it.

Raman was the last one to get out of the water; 24 of his classmates never made it.

Raman and his friends contacted the police immediately. As he recounts the incident to me two and a half years later, he remembers how they were still full of hope when the police arrived. “We were thinking if someone could grab the branch of a tree… Few of them were really good swimmers,” he says. The police came in half an hour and told him: “Kuch nahi hoga, mil jayega ek do din me. Body mil jaayega (Nothing can be done now. We will get the bodies in one or two days)”.

Twenty-four of Raman’s classmates — half the number of students on the trip — didn’t make it. They were all 19-20 years old. It took weeks before the bodies were recovered downstream. The body of one student, Sri Harsha, is yet to be found. Their tour guide, who tried saving some students, was the 25th casualty.

What the students mistook for a tranquil shallow stream was, in fact, the mighty Beas river. The sudden inflow of water was the result of the opening of sluices of the dam powering the Larji hydroelectric project. The dam was just 2 km upstream from where the tragedy occurred. The students were unaware of the existence of the dam as there were no signboards near the spot. The power project authorities discharged water from the reservoir without a warning. The June 8, 2014 incident came to be known as the Beas River Tragedy.

The High Court (HC) of Himachal Pradesh (HP) took suo motu cognizance of the incident. In January 2016, the parents of each deceased student were awarded a compensation of Rs 20 Lakh. This will be paid by the HP State Electricity Board , the engineering college, and the HP government. The HC held the “sheer carelessness” of the Electricity Board and the college authorities responsible for the incident.

None of the students had imagined that a quick, fun adventure to get a few memorable photos for Facebook and Instagram would turn so tragic.

Three years later, on a very cold January morning, I visit the site of the accident with my colleague. It’s not hard to find this spot — ask anyone where the 24 students died and they will point you to a stretch of river-bank opposite the electricity board office.

The only thing that has changed since the Beas River Tragedy is the barbed wire fence and some boards put up by the HP State Electricity Board. One board reads: “Water level may rise suddenly resulting in mishap.” And it warns, in Hindi, against possible loss of lives and property.

The steep drop to the Beas river, and the rising mountains across it, have a picture post-card like beauty to it. The river is far from full, but there is still enough water for it to navigate playfully among the boulders. I spot the big rock midstream and feel shivers go up my spine.

“The only thing that has changed since the Beas River Tragedy is the barbed wire fence and some boards put up by the HP State Electricity Board.”

I can hear the sound of an excavator quarrying stone from the mountain further down the road, closer to the dam. A man is in the middle of the stream. He hops from one small boulder to the other and then wades in the shallow water. As I wonder how he got down there, I notice a narrow winding path from the flat top to the river below. In fact, there are many ways to get from the road to the river.

The people around brush aside my concerns, telling me he is a local. “We (the local people) know that this is a massive river and it is not as docile as it might seem at times. This is the Beas river, it can devour anything,” says Tanu Ram, a resident of Thalout (the village where the accident occurred), who had witnessed the mishap.

Tanu Ram says that they stop tourists from getting close to the accident spot. “Most people want to stop here for photos. We tell them that it’s not safe to stop here. When they don’t listen, we tell them about the accident.” Even the police issue fines to those who get close to the river, he adds.

While returning from the spot, I hear the siren go off. Panic grips me momentarily but I rush to see the water released by the dam. The expected deluge does not arrive; it’s still winter. For some reason, I feel reassured.