Vikram Seth - A Suitable Boy

‘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 compound 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.’

‘Yes, Papa.’

‘And?’

‘No.’

After a pause she said:

‘Do you want to talk to Veena? She and her mother-in-law are frantic with worry. Veena’s husband is not even in town.’

‘No. No.’ L.N. Agarwal, after fearing he had lost his child, could not bear to face someone else in the same anguish.

‘Papa—’

‘All right. Give me a minute or two.’

In the end he went over to Mahesh Kapoor’s daughter, and said what words of comfort and practicality he could. If Bhaskar had not been found so far at the police station the chances were good, etc. . But even as he spoke he heard how hollow his words must sound to the mother and the grandmother. He told them that he would go around to the first-aid centres and phone up Bhaskar’s grandfather at Prem Nivas if there was any news, either good or bad; they too should phone in periodically to check.

But at none of the first-aid centres was there any sign of the little frog, and as hour followed hour, Veena and old Mrs Tandon, and soon Mr and Mrs Mahesh Kapoor, and Pran and Savita, and of course Priya and Ram Vilas Goyal (who even began to feel themselves responsible for what had happened), sank into a deeper and deeper sense of hopelessness and desperation.

Mahesh Kapoor, while sympathizing with Priya and reassuring her that she should not be so foolish as to hold herself responsible for what was beyond anyone’s control, did not tell her where he placed the responsibility: squarely on her father’s shoulders. He was the Home Minister. It had been his duty to ensure that the arrangements were not susceptible to this horrendous eventuality. At least once before, in the firing at Chowk, L.N. Agarwal had shown either lack of personal foresight or unwise confidence in delegating authority to others who lacked it. Mahesh Kapoor, although he usually had very little time for his family, loved his only grandchild greatly, and was distressed beyond measure for his wife and his daughter.

Everyone stayed over at Prem Nivas that night. Kedarnath could not be contacted; he was out of town. Trunk calls were difficult to make, and he was not in Kanpur, where they had thought he might be on business. Maan, who was so fond of Bhaskar, was in Debaria still. Veena and old Mrs Tandon first went home in the flickering hope that Bhaskar might have gone back there. But no one in their neighbourhood had seen Bhaskar. They themselves had no telephone, and to spend the night alone at home would be unbearable. Their rooftop neighbour of the red sari reassured them that she would get in touch with the Minister Sahib’s house if they had any news. And so they made their way back to Prem Nivas, Veena in her heart bitterly upbraiding Kedarnath for being, as he so often was, out of Brahmpur.

Like my father when I was born, she thought.

By then Pran and Savita were at Prem Nivas as well. Pran knew he would have to be with his parents and sister, but he was afraid of distressing his wife unduly in her present condition. If her mother or sister had returned from their travels, he would have felt no qualms about leaving her in their care and staying over at Prem Nivas himself. But Mrs Rupa Mehra’s last letter had been from Delhi, and she was at this moment either in Kanpur or in Lucknow, far from where she could be of use.

That night the family discussed what could be done. No one could sleep. Mrs Mahesh Kapoor prayed. There was very little that had not already been attempted. All the hospitals of Brahmpur had been searched for Bhaskar, following the conjecture that he had been injured and taken there directly by some helpful person. So had all the police stations — but to no avail.

They were all certain that Bhaskar, intelligent and (usually) self-possessed as he was, would have either gone back home or contacted his grandparents if he had been able to. Had his body been misidentified and taken away for cremation by others? Had he been kidnapped in the confusion? As all the plausible possibilities disappeared one by one in the face of the facts, unlikely imaginings took on a credibility of their own.

No one could sleep that night. As disturbing as their own grief and anxiety was the sound of revelry that echoed through the darkness. For it was the month of Ramazan, the Muslim month of fasting. Because of the purely lunar Muslim calendar, the month of Ramazan had staggered its way back to summer over the last few years. The days were long and hot, and the deprivation great — since strict Muslims were enjoined even from drinking water during the daylight hours. After sunset, the relief therefore was the greater — and the nights were given over to feasting and celebration.

The Nawab Sahib, strict observant though he himself was, had, upon hearing of the calamity at the Pul Mela, forbidden any celebration in his own household. He was even more distressed when he heard that his friend’s grandson could not be traced. But such fellow-feeling was not general, or at least not universal, and the sound of Muslim celebration in a town where the news of the disaster had spread like fire, and must be known to everyone, was embittering even to a man like Mahesh Kapoor.

The phone rang from time to time, exciting their hope and fear. But they were messages of sympathy — or intimations from one official source or another that nothing had come up — or else calls that had nothing to do with Bhaskar at all.