Delhi, 1999: Tremors of an earthquake shake the inhabitants of the city.
Delhi, 1999: Tremors of an earthquake shake the inhabitants. Shaken also is their public consciousness and conscience as implications unfold.
It all happened in a matter of seconds. It was 12:35 AM, 29th of March 1999. Delhi. I remember the time because I had seen the clock falling down. I was watching a late night film on HBO with my sister. It was the new intellectual-arty side of Bollywood that tackled the contemporary issues of terrorism. The film was a riot of colours, evocative and beautiful. I was the responsible, intellectual citizen watching the film, apptly appreciative.
I was engrossed in a dance sequence when my head started spinning. I absent-mindedly shook my head to clear it. This made a strange trembling sensation run through my entire body. I vaguely wondered what was happening. Now my chair was shaking. It was all a matter of seconds. I snapped out of the fiery red and jet-black motions on the screen. The pictures hung on the wall were vibrating, the chandelier overhead oscillating. I remember hearing a strange humming sound. It was the clock that brought us to our senses. With a loud crash, it fell to the floor, scattering glass all around. Earthquake! my sister shouted, and ran to wake up my mother. We dashed outside. But the ground had stopped shaking by now. All the neighbours were gathered outside, talking fearfully. We were all nervous but thrilled. It was a live earthquake we had witnessed and came out of it unharmed. It was more sensational than Bollywood, and as unreal.
Everyone waited outside, lest it happened again. Children were running around, roused and loud. A few titters started being heard. We were laughing now, teasing each other about the scared looks on our faces when it happened. A few people were exchanging stories about the descent from the upper floors of the building, showing their bravado. We had common things to share. Someone’s wardrobe doors had flown open, someone’s perfume bottles had fallen down and broken, filling the room with sickly odours. A tragedy had just passed us by, leaving us untouched. We felt very important. It had been all very entertaining. Our very own reality show. It was morbid.
The next morning the newspapers carried news of devastation and calamity. The epicentre of the earthquake lay in Chamoli, a remote district in the Himalayan region. It lasted for 30 seconds and was officially labeled “severe”. The immediate death toll was 91 and expected to rise steeply. Ninety percent of the buildings were destroyed immediately. The local hospital caved in as well. There were hundreds injured. There were landslides that blocked the roads, hampering rescue operations. Phone lines snapped, cutting the region off. There were people who had no access to food, water and electricity. As the tremors had started, the town had been plunged into darkness.
From that day on started the deluge of stories. Stories told every such time, rendered almost ritualistic in nature. About the five prisoners who died in the police station, no one to let them out. About the little girl carrying a photograph of her missing parents, wandering the debris-ridden ruins. We, the responsible, intellectual citizens read the stories and felt aptly sorry. We condemned the government for the discrepancies in the rescue and rehabilitation work. We had heated debates about the lack of earthquake-resilient architecture. As always, we put the blame on someone else. We poignantly retold stories of tragedy read in the newspapers, while cosily settled in our living rooms. We had forgotten our thrill, the hysterical joy. The morbid sense of relief that overtook us at having been spared this fate. It was all very convenient. 30 seconds was what it took to expose us.
