Vikram Seth - A Suitable Boy

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.

‘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.’