A Suitable Boy

  Veena saw Priya clutch the necklace round her neck. Her mouth was open and she was gasping. Bhaskar looked at his mother and grandmother. He could not grasp what was happening, but he was terribly frightened. Ram Vilas, seeing that Priya was being crushed, tried to move towards her, and Bhaskar toppled off his back. Veena managed to get hold of the boy. But old Mrs Tandon was nowhere to be seen—the crowd had swallowed her up in its helpless and irresistible movement. People were screaming now, clutching at each other and stepping on each other, trying to find their husbands and wives, their parents and children, or flailing around for their own survival, desperate to breathe and to avoid being crushed. Some pressed forward into the nagas, who, fearing to be crushed between them and the spectators on the other side, laid into them with their tridents, roaring with anger. People fell, blood pouring from their wounds, on to the ground. At the sight of blood, the crowd reacted with terror, and tried to turn back. But there was nowhere to go.

  Some people at the edges of the ramp tried to slip through the bamboo barricades and scramble down to the ditches on either side. But last night’s storm had made these steep slopes slippery, and the ditches themselves were filled with water. About a hundred beggars were sheltering by the side of one of the ditches. Many of them were cripples, some were blind. The injured pilgrims, gasping for breath and clawing for a foothold on the slope, now came tumbling down on to them. Some of the beggars were crushed to death, and some tried to flee into the water, which soon turned into a bloodied slush as more of those who were trapped on the ramp sought this, their only route of escape, and fell or slid on to the screaming people below.

  At the foot of the ramp, where Veena and her family were trapped, people were maimed or dying. Many of the old and infirm fell to the ground. Some of them, exhausted by the long journey, had little strength to withstand the shock or the pressure of the crowd. A student, unable to move, watched helplessly nearby as his mother was trampled to death and his father’s ribs crushed. Many people were literally squeezed to death against each other. Some were suffocated, some succumbed to injuries. Veena saw one old woman, blood pouring out of her mouth, suddenly collapse near her.

  There was complete and dreadful chaos.

  ‘Bhaskar—Bhaskar—don’t let go of my hand,’ cried Veena, clutching him tightly. She had to gasp out every word. But they were thrust to and fro by the great terrified injured mass all around them, and she could feel the weight of someone’s body force itself between her hand and his.

  ‘No—no—’ she screamed, sobbing with dread. But she felt the small hand slip, palm first, and then digit by digit, out of her own.

  11.19

  Within fifteen minutes more than a thousand people were dead.

  Finally the police managed to communicate with the railway authorities and stop the trains. They set up barriers on the approach routes to the ramp, and cleared the area below and around the ramp. The loudspeakers started telling people to go back, not to enter the Mela grounds, not to watch the processions. They announced that the remaining processions themselves had been cancelled.

  It was still not clear what had happened.

  Dipankar had been among the spectators on the other side of the main route. He watched with horror the carnage that was taking place less than fifty feet away but—with the nagas between him and the ramp—there was nothing he could do. Anyway, there was nothing he could have done except get killed or injured. He did not recognize anyone on the ramp, so tightly packed was the crowd. It was a hellish scene, like humanity gone mad, each element indistinguishable from the other, all bent on a kind of collective suicide.

  He saw one of the younger nagas stab furiously at a man, an old man who had in his terror tried to force his way to safety on the other side of the procession. The man fell, then rose again. Blood was streaming from wounds on his shoulder and back. With horror, Dipankar recognized him as the man whom he had met in the boat, the hardy old pilgrim from Salimpur who had been so insistent upon the correct spot for bathing. The man tried to struggle back, but was flung down by the crowd as it surged forward again. His back and his head were crushed by the trampling feet. When the crowd next surged back at the point of the tridents, the mangled body of the old man remained, like a piece of debris washed up by the tide.

  11.20

  Meanwhile, a number of VIPs and army officers, who had been watching the great spectacle of the processions from the ramparts of the Brahmpur Fort looked down in disbelief at the scene far below them. The panic began so suddenly, and the whole thing was over so quickly, that the number of motionless bodies lying on the ground when the terrified mob had finally been able to ooze away was unbelievable. What had happened? What arrangements had gone wrong? Who was to blame?

  The Fort Commander, without waiting for a formal request, immediately sent troops down to help the police and the Mela officers. They began to clear bodies away, to take the injured to the first-aid centres and the corpses to the Pul Mela Police Station. He also suggested immediately setting up a central control room to deal with the aftermath of the disaster. The temporary telephone exchange that had been set up for the Mela was taken over for this purpose.

  Those VIPs who had wanted to bathe on this auspicious day were on a launch in the middle of the Ganga when the captain came up to them in great agitation. The Chief Minister and Home Minister were standing side by side. The captain, holding out a pair of binoculars, said to the Chief Minister: ‘Sir—I fear there is some trouble on the ingress ramp. You might wish to take a look for yourself.’ S.S. Sharma took the binoculars wordlessly and refocused them. What had looked like a slight perturbation from a distance suddenly came alive to him in all its horrifying actuality. His mouth opened, he closed his eyes in distress, and opened them again to scan the upper reaches of the ramp, then the ditches on either side, the nagas, the embattled police. He handed the binoculars to L.N. Agarwal with the single word: ‘Agarwal!’

  The Home Minister’s first thought was that in the ultimate analysis he might be held responsible for this calamity. Perhaps it is unjust to consider this thought atypically unworthy. Even in the worst calamities of others, some part of our mind, often the one that is quickest to respond, tries to brace itself for the vibration that will reach us from the epicentre. ‘But the arrangements were perfect—I went over them with the Mela officer myself—’ the Home Minister was about to say, but a second thought stopped him in his tracks.

  Priya. Where was Priya? She had planned to go to the Mela today with Mahesh Kapoor’s daughter—to watch the procession, to bathe. Surely she was all right. Surely nothing could have happened to her. Torn between love for her and fear of what might have happened, he could not say a word. He handed the binoculars back to the Chief Minister. The Chief Minister was saying something to him, but he could not understand what he was saying. He could not follow the words. He hid his head in his hands.

  After a while, the fog in his mind thinned out, and he told himself that there were millions of people at the Mela today, and that the chances, the real chances, of her being one of the unfortunate people caught in the stampede, were very small. But he was still sick with worry for his only child. May nothing have happened to her, he said to himself. O God, may nothing have happened to her.

  The Chief Minister continued to look grim, and speak grimly to him. But apart from the sharp tone, the Home Minister caught nothing, understood nothing. After a while he looked at the Ganga. A few rose petals and a coconut were floating on the water near the launch. Pressing his hands together he began to pray to the holy river.

  11.21

  Because the launch needed a deeper draught than a regular boat, it was difficult to land it on the shallow bank of the Ganga. The captain finally resorted to the expedient of mooring it to a chain of boats, which he in effect commandeered. By the time the launch was moored, more than three-quarters of an hour had passed. The crowds at the main bathing areas on the Brahmpur side had thinned to almost nothing. The news of the
disaster had spread swiftly. The bathing posts with their colourful signs—parrot, peacock, bear, scissors, mountain, trident and so on—were almost deserted. A few people, in a restrained, almost fearful way, were still dipping themselves in the river and hurrying away.

  The Chief Minister, limping slightly, and the Home Minister, almost trembling with anxiety, accompanied by the few officials who had been with them on the boat, got to the area at the foot of the ramp. The scene was an eerie one. A large stretch of sand was entirely empty of people. There was nothing there: no people, not even bodies—just shoes, slippers, umbrellas, food, pieces of paper, clothes torn to shreds, bags, utensils, belongings of all kinds. Crows were pecking at the food. Here and there one could see patches where the damp sand had been stained darker, but there was nothing to indicate the terrible extent of the calamity.

  The Fort Commander presented his compliments. So did the Mela Officer, an ICS man. The press had been fended off after a fashion.

  ‘Where are the dead?’ said the Chief Minister. ‘You have shifted them rather quickly.’

  ‘At the police station.’

  ‘Which one?’

  ‘The Pul Mela Police Station, Sir.’

  The Chief Minister’s head was shaking slightly—as it sometimes did when he was tired, but not for that reason now.

  ‘We will go there immediately. Agarwal, this—’ The Chief Minister pointed at the scene, then shook his head, and did not continue.

  L.N. Agarwal, who could think of nothing but Priya, pulled himself together with an effort. He thought of his great hero, Sardar Vallabhbhai Patel, who had died less than a year ago. It was said that Patel had been in court, at a crucial stage in his defence of a client against a charge of murder, when the news of his wife’s death had been brought to him. He had controlled his sorrow and continued with his argument. Only when the court rose did he allow himself to mourn the already dead without risk to the still living. This was a man who knew the meaning of duty, and its precedence over private grief.

  Wherever his faltering mind

  unsteadily wanders,

  he should restrain it

  and bring it under self-control.

  The words of Krishna in the Bhagavad Gita came to L.N. Agarwal’s mind. But they were followed immediately by Arjuna’s more human cry:

  Krishna, the mind is faltering,

  violent, strong, and stubborn;

  I find it as difficult

  to hold as the wind.

  On the way to the police station, the Home Minister apprised himself of the situation as well as he could.

  ‘What about the injured?’ he asked.

  ‘They have been taken to the first-aid centres, Sir.’

  ‘How many injured are there?’

  ‘I do not know, Sir, but judging from the number of the dead—’

  ‘The facilities are inadequate. The seriously injured must be taken to hospital.’

  ‘Sir.’ But the officer knew it was impossible. He decided to risk the Minister’s wrath. ‘But how, Sir, can we do that when the exit ramp is full of departing pilgrims? We are trying to encourage everyone to leave as soon as possible.’

  L.N. Agarwal turned on him caustically. So far he had not uttered one word of recrimination to the officer who had been in charge of the arrangements. He had wanted to ascertain where responsibility lay before he relieved his spleen. But now he said:

  ‘Do you people ever use your brains? I am not thinking of the exit ramp. The ingress ramp is deserted, cordoned off. Use it to get vehicles in and out. It is broad enough. Use the area of the road at the base of the ramp as a car park. And requisition every vehicle within the radius of a mile from the pipal tree.’

  ‘Sir, requisition—?’

  ‘Yes. You heard me. I’ll put it in writing in due course. Now give orders so that this is done immediately. And warn the hospitals of what to expect.’

  ‘Yes, Sir.’

  ‘Also get in touch with the university and the law college and the medical college. We will need all the volunteers we can get for the next few days.’

  ‘But they are on vacation, Sir.’ Then, catching L.N. Agarwal’s look: ‘Yes, Sir, I shall see what I can do.’ The Mela Officer was about to leave.

  ‘And while you are doing so,’ added the Chief Minister, in a milder tone than his colleague, ‘get the IG of Police and the Chief Secretary.’

  The police station presented a painful sight.

  The dead were laid out in rows for identification. There was nowhere to keep them but in the sun. Many of the bodies were horribly distorted, many of the faces crushed. Some of the dead looked merely asleep, but did not brush away the swarms of flies that settled thickly and filthily on their faces and their wounds. The heat was terrible. Sobbing men and women were moving from body to body, looking for their loved ones among the long lines of corpses. Two men were embracing tearfully nearby. They were brothers who had been separated in the crush, and each had come here fearing that the other might be dead. Another man was embracing the body of his dead wife and shaking both her hands almost in anger as if he hoped that this would somehow rouse her to life again.

  11.22

  ‘Where is the phone?’ said L.N. Agarwal.

  ‘Sir, I will bring it to you,’ said a police officer.

  ‘I’ll make the call inside,’ said L.N. Agarwal.

  ‘But, Sir, here it is already,’ said the obliging officer; a telephone on a long lead had been brought out.

  The Home Minister called his son-in-law’s house. At the news that his daughter and son-in-law had both gone to the Mela—and that they had not been heard from since—he said:

  ‘And the children?’

  ‘They are both at home.’

  ‘Thank God. If you hear from them, you must call me at once at the police station. I will get the message wherever I am. Tell the Rai Bahadur not to worry. No, on second thoughts, if the Rai Bahadur doesn’t know what has happened, don’t tell him anything at all.’ But L.N. Agarwal, who knew how news travelled, was sure that all Brahmpur—indeed, half of India—had probably heard the news of the disaster already.

  The Chief Minister nodded at the Home Minister, a note of sympathy entering his voice: ‘Ah, Agarwal, I didn’t realize—’

  L.N. Agarwal’s eyes filled with tears, but he said nothing.

  After a while he said: ‘Has the press been here?’

  ‘Not here, Sir. They were taking photographs of the dead at the site itself.’

  ‘Get them here. Ask them to be cooperative. And get any photographers on the government payrolls here as well. Where are the police photographers? I want all these bodies photographed carefully. Each one of them.’

  ‘But, Sir!’

  ‘These bodies have begun to stink. Soon they will become a source of disease. Let relatives claim their own dead and take them away. The rest must be cremated tomorrow. Arrange a site for cremation on the bank of the Ganga with the help of the Mela authorities. We must have photographs of all the dead who have not yet been identified either by their relatives or by other means of identification.’

  The Home Minister walked up and down the lines of the dead, fearing the worst. At the end he said: ‘Are there any more dead?’

  ‘Sir, they are still coming in. Mainly from the first-aid centres.’

  ‘And where are the first-aid centres?’ L.N. Agarwal still could not control the agitation in his heart.

  ‘Sir, there are several, some quite far away. But the camp for lost and injured children is just over there.’

  The Home Minister knew his own grandchildren were safe. He wanted above all to scour the first-aid centres, where the injured were lying, before they began to be dispersed—by his own instructions—through the hospitals of the city. But something struggled in his heart, and he sighed and said: ‘Yes, I’ll go there first.’

  The Chief Minister, S.S. Sharma, had begun to suffer from the heat, and was forced to return. The Home Minister went on to the compo
und where the children were being temporarily housed. It was chiefly their names that were being announced in the raucous and melancholy messages that the loudspeakers were now broadcasting continuously over the sands. ‘Ram Ratan Yadav of Village Makarganj in District Ballia in Uttar Pradesh, a child of about six years old, is waiting for his parents in the lost children compound near the police station. Kindly come to collect him there.’ But many children—and the ones here ranged from three months to ten years in age—did not know their names or the names of their villages; and the parents of some of the children, who were whimpering or weeping or just sleeping from shock and exhaustion, were themselves lying stilled in death in the nearby police enclosure.

  Women volunteers were feeding the children and giving them what comfort they could. They had compiled lists of those who had been found—incomplete as such lists necessarily were—and transmitted them to the central control room, so that they could be matched with a state-wise list of the missing that was being compiled there. But it was clear to the Home Minister that the foundling children would, like the dead, have to be photographed if they were not claimed soon.

  ‘Take a message to the police station—’ he began. And then his heart almost stopped for joy and relief as he heard his daughter’s voice say: ‘Papa.’

  ‘Priya.’ The name, which meant ‘beloved’ was never truer than now. He looked at her, and began to weep. Then he embraced her and asked, noticing her sad face:

  ‘Where is Vakil Sahib? Is he all right?’

  ‘Yes, Papa, he’s over there.’ She pointed to the far end of the compound. ‘But we can’t find Veena’s child. That’s why we’re here.’

  ‘Have you checked at the police station? I didn’t look at the children there.’