The last lifeline

Donacirc;euro;trade;t worry about us. Aruna has hung bells from the ceiling of our house. If the small ones ring, then it is a small qu...

Donacirc;euro;trade;t worry about us. Aruna has hung bells from the ceiling of our house. If the small ones ring, then it is a small quake and we do not have to run out. If the large ones toll, it is all over,8221; yells Kamlesh Pandya into the phone in Gujarati. He is talking to a relative in the US from Palanpur. The town is about 100 km from Bhuj, the epicentre of the earthquake that had shaken Gujarat more than a day back.

The queue at the PCO booth that evening was long. Because for about 10 villages and towns around Palanpur was the only place with an active phone link. Miraculously, after more than 36 hours of absolute deadness, the phones in only one area of the town started functioning. The news travelled and queues at the PCO booths got longer. Every one of the waiting people had smiles of relief amid tears of the trauma on faces dusty with spending life out in the cold.

The operator sitting at the booth grew grimmer by the minute as every greeting of the callers was invariably followed by a tearful thank you to the heavens above. That small fragile phone cubicle, from where calls were being made to all across the world, became a personal island of pain floating in the ocean of grief all around.

8220;Can you send us a ticket to Virginia? We want to leave all this. The children are scared, I want them to get away for a while,8221; said a man to his NRI brother.

Ajit Rana, a resident of Bhuj, had left his family near his collapsed house before setting out in search of a phone. 8220;Mamaji, how is mother? Tell her we are all alive. Don8217;t tell her that we have lost the house. Tell her that we will come to Kuala Lumpur for Holi,8221; he said as tears streamed down his face.

An aloof man absently gave the number to the operator. 8220;Namaskar. I am a friend of Keshav. Am I talking to any of his relatives?8221; he asked. After getting confirmation, he said, 8220;He is dead. He was killed yesterday in a hospital in Anjar. The roof of my house collapsed on him.8221; He offered to have the body kept in the mortuary if someone could fly in from London soon. Then for 10 long minutes he patiently answered questions on why Keshav was in Anjar, whether he died a quick death and whether he could possibly have been saved.

Saroj Patel and her husband were next. Her tired eyes blankly focussed on something far away in the distance. She had lost her only child. They were there to call the grandparents in Mumbai. 8220;We could not save him,8221; cried the father. 8220;He was at the Republic Day parade in his school. He was so keen on dressing up for the occasion. We even bought him a new blue uniform,8221; he said. The mother quietly watched on, her eyes brimming with memories. When the phone was given to her, she simply said, 8220;Hello.8221; Then as she heard condolences from the other side, she broke down.

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While one could call people outside the state easily, the telephone services within the state were almost non-existent. It was only by calling a common friend or relative abroad or outside Gujarat that news of people living a few hundred kilometres away could be procured.

Expectant faces kept queuing outside, the end of the queue disappearing into the gathering dusk. But that shack with its yellow and red lettered front announcing that it offered STD, ISD and fax facilities became the voice of Gujarat, the first sign of life and of loss.

And amid the tears and relief, very few realised that the operator of the booth did not charge anyone any money. Reams of unpaid bills just poured out of the machine collecting at his feet under the table as he busily punched in phone numbers for his distraught countrymen.