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Anjaar remembers a terrible tragedy

Savera R Someshwar in Anjaar

The quiet of the morning was rent by the mournful wail of a siren. And an entire town, which had spent a sleepless night, skipped a collective heartbeat.

Everything, and everyone, came to standstill. No sound broke the ensuing hush.

It was 8.46pm, exactly a year to the moment after the devastating earthquake that struck the state of Gujarat and laid waste a town called Anjaar.

The rest of the nation had then listened in shock as the odd report trickled in -- each bearing grim news of unimaginable destruction. And then, as the toll increased, came the despairing tale of hundreds of schoolchildren -- participating in the traditional Republic Day prabhat pheri -- trapped on a narrow road under debris that rose as high as 15 feet.

One hundred and eighty-two children died in that tragedy, as did 21 teachers and a school clerk.

And then, just like that, the moment passed. People were on their way again, wonder-struck that the phenomenon that had carved their name in posterity had not paid a return visit. This time, the earth did not roar, the buildings did not tremble and collapse.

Anjaar woke very early on Saturday, January 26. In fact, most of the townsfolk got no sleep at all. Almost every family here has lost a member and -- before the flag-hoisting ceremonies that would commemorate Republic Day -- there were the shraddh ceremonies to be performed for the souls of those lost in the tragedy; family members to be remembered and mourned.

For some of the children -- those whose parents would allow them -- there was school and flag-hoisting and the singing of patriotic songs. Many of them, in fact, had compelled their parents to send them to school.

"School is safer than home," said 13-year-old Digpal Sodha. "There is a lot of open space here... Just in case...." He grins, leaving the sentence incomplete.

His friend Hemang Vegad, who lost his younger brother and sister, laughs, "What is the use of getting scared? Anything can happen anywhere. Besides, I like Republic Day and flag-hoisting. Why should I let anything spoil that?" Then, after a pause, he adds softly, "But I miss my brother and sister."

For the government, it seemed the perfect opportunity to indulge in a bit of self-publicity. First, there was the flag-hoisting at the municipal council office and then at the deputy district collector's office.

Kharti Chowk -- the area that once held the narrow roads through which the ill-fated prabhat pheri was winding its way -- looked like an election meeting was in progress. Loudspeakers adorned the corners of a huge shamiana, echoing the mantras of a trio of priests performing a havan for the souls of the dead and the protection of the living.

The special guests for the function? Not parents who had lost children. Not ordinary citizens who had lost their entire family. Instead, Additional District Collector Rajendra Sarvaiya and Mayor Mrudulaben Pande sat in as special invitees.

Speeches followed the puja -- with "important dignitaries" in front, as we were informed by a senior municipal clerk who was fasting in memory of his dead son, and the rest of Anjaar was held back by a rope.

On the other side was a smaller havan organised by residents of Kharti Chowk. Here, there were no barriers, though men and women did sit separately. After the havan, an old lady walked to the tiny cement and tin sheet temple that now housed a Shivling rescued from a temple that had crumbled during the quake.

She laid before it a plate of sweets and invoked the Lord's blessing.

As she walked back to the shamiana, a call came: "Chalo! Bachchon ne bolavo (come on, call the children)!" The youngsters were then treated to free sweets.

In the other shamiana, the speeches continued to roll, to be soon followed by a rendition of patriotic songs by the Shruti Children's Orchestra, brought in specially from Baroda.

As for the ordinary Anjaar citizen, his mourning was happening in private as they spent time at the locations of their former homes, remembering their lives as they once were.

Like 27-year-old Jayshree Jhala, who came with her 12-year-old son, Vikram. To pray, moist-eyed, at the ruined temple that once held the Shivling. To sit at the location where her house once stood. To caress the broken roof of her house, a piece of which still stands where it has fallen. To remember her husband, who died under the neighbour's collapsing wall after managing to run out of their own house. To touch the memory of her younger, 18-month-old son, who died in her husband's arms. To thank her brother-in-law for pulling her out of the rubble. To wonder about her future. And to ask God: WHY?

She no longer celebrates Republic Day.

But many of Anjaar's citizens do. As the town's only plastic-flag seller says: "Yeh saal to dhanda bahut achcha hai (business is very good this year)." In fact, it is better than last year, because he had already sold more than 300 flags.

There are a few changes, however.

This year, there is an underlying sorrow.

There is no prabhat pheri.

And the streets -- those that exist -- are wider.

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