Disbelief, shock, deep fear. All this happened in my village in Champaran when the earth shook on Saturday. The experience was universal across the districts of Bihar on the border with Nepal. About 40 people died in the state. But these are just the numbers of those who were crushed by falling debris or buried under the rubble. Some died simply because fear made their hearts stop. Such deaths are often not even counted in the official death toll.
A 50-year-old woman succumbed of a heart attack in a village 20 kilometres from where I live. In the Christian quarter of the town of Bettiah, Rodrigue Dominic, all of 15 years old, rushed upstairs along with his brother Nelson to evacuate his old grandparents from their siesta on the upper floor. The grandparents emerged safe but Rodrigue suddenly collapsed.
In the shadow of the Himalayas, northern Bihar has lived through many earthquakes. My mother, who was born just a couple of years after the great Bihar earthquake of 1934, had grown up listening to stories of devastation. Those stories – an education that had stayed with her – prompted her to react swiftly in 1988, when an earthquake struck early morning. She woke up from sleep with the electrifying speed of a 100-metre sprinter. “Beta…bhukamp…bahar lawn me chalu [Son...It's an earthquake..Let's go outside onto the lawn].” We stepped out to the cacophony of shrill tweets of birds in fright. Village dogs ran around aimlessly, looking for a place to hide. Julie, our own German shepherd, scampered around us.
But yesterday, the Himalayan tremors were so intense that even birds and animals were lulled into silence.
Scenes from a wedding
I was visiting an old family friend to congratulate her on her granddaughter’s wedding. The conversation had veered towards the recent storm that ravaged the Mithilanchal and Kosi belts, eastwards of Champaran, where the rabi crops had been destroyed in the rains. Bubu mai, the grand old lady with her benign smile, saw a silver lining. “Bauaa, aam aur ganna ke faiyadaa hoi ee paani se. [Son, these rains will benefit the mango and sugarcane crops],” she said.
Just then, I felt my plastic chair was swaying on her verandah. “Bubu mai, come out,“ I said, taking her hand. Once we were in the open, I instinctively turned to sprint home. But I was rudely stopped in my tracks. Run home to save what? The edifice? I was drawn to the memory of the 1988 tremor. Ma had left me now. But she had left me smarter with her lesson that morning 27 years ago.
With Bubu mai, I sped towards an open field. So did scores of her neighbours. The newly weds – her granddaughter with her groom – came running out, hand in hand.
Like a rocking chair
The earth refused to stop shaking. It began swaying like a rocking chair. Finding my feet unsteady, I grabbed a young man’s shoulder even as I took out my cell phone to break the news to my friends in the media. The connectivity too had been shocked out of service.
People were screaming. But where were the birds? Not in sight. Not a tweet. I then spotted two village dogs huddled together. The tremor lasted more than three minutes. The whole village was out, refusing to return indoors. Three more mild tremors were felt at intervals.
Many people stayed awake through the night. Daybreak too was quiet. I made myself a glass of tea, mulling about whether to go to Nepal or not, and took my first sip on the lawn, looking at the wilted flowers and how my nursery bed of summer annuals had coped. There was a tweet. Soft. Soon, a chatter. The birds had overcome their fear and found their voice.
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A 50-year-old woman succumbed of a heart attack in a village 20 kilometres from where I live. In the Christian quarter of the town of Bettiah, Rodrigue Dominic, all of 15 years old, rushed upstairs along with his brother Nelson to evacuate his old grandparents from their siesta on the upper floor. The grandparents emerged safe but Rodrigue suddenly collapsed.
In the shadow of the Himalayas, northern Bihar has lived through many earthquakes. My mother, who was born just a couple of years after the great Bihar earthquake of 1934, had grown up listening to stories of devastation. Those stories – an education that had stayed with her – prompted her to react swiftly in 1988, when an earthquake struck early morning. She woke up from sleep with the electrifying speed of a 100-metre sprinter. “Beta…bhukamp…bahar lawn me chalu [Son...It's an earthquake..Let's go outside onto the lawn].” We stepped out to the cacophony of shrill tweets of birds in fright. Village dogs ran around aimlessly, looking for a place to hide. Julie, our own German shepherd, scampered around us.
But yesterday, the Himalayan tremors were so intense that even birds and animals were lulled into silence.
Scenes from a wedding
I was visiting an old family friend to congratulate her on her granddaughter’s wedding. The conversation had veered towards the recent storm that ravaged the Mithilanchal and Kosi belts, eastwards of Champaran, where the rabi crops had been destroyed in the rains. Bubu mai, the grand old lady with her benign smile, saw a silver lining. “Bauaa, aam aur ganna ke faiyadaa hoi ee paani se. [Son, these rains will benefit the mango and sugarcane crops],” she said.
Just then, I felt my plastic chair was swaying on her verandah. “Bubu mai, come out,“ I said, taking her hand. Once we were in the open, I instinctively turned to sprint home. But I was rudely stopped in my tracks. Run home to save what? The edifice? I was drawn to the memory of the 1988 tremor. Ma had left me now. But she had left me smarter with her lesson that morning 27 years ago.
With Bubu mai, I sped towards an open field. So did scores of her neighbours. The newly weds – her granddaughter with her groom – came running out, hand in hand.
Like a rocking chair
The earth refused to stop shaking. It began swaying like a rocking chair. Finding my feet unsteady, I grabbed a young man’s shoulder even as I took out my cell phone to break the news to my friends in the media. The connectivity too had been shocked out of service.
People were screaming. But where were the birds? Not in sight. Not a tweet. I then spotted two village dogs huddled together. The tremor lasted more than three minutes. The whole village was out, refusing to return indoors. Three more mild tremors were felt at intervals.
Many people stayed awake through the night. Daybreak too was quiet. I made myself a glass of tea, mulling about whether to go to Nepal or not, and took my first sip on the lawn, looking at the wilted flowers and how my nursery bed of summer annuals had coped. There was a tweet. Soft. Soon, a chatter. The birds had overcome their fear and found their voice.
