The week that was

– 7:15 PM, Saturday, 15 July 2006

Past few days have been tinged with mortality.

Tuesday, 11 July 2006
Serial bomb blasts

Eight bombs went off in the space of 11 minutes across First-class compartments of Mumbai suburban Western Railway line.

I was at Andheri station waiting for a friend and worrying about Dad, who was riding the same line around the same time. Witnessed the choked roads and collective stupor of disbelief among the public as the news spread.

Luckily Dad alighted at Bandra two minutes before the first blast at Khar station - saved by the difference of one train.
The fear we felt gave an inkling of the calamity that befell those who lost family. Official toll: 200. Grief aggravated by the loss of bread-winners.

Channels were sensationalist. People don’t need blast videos on loop and politicians quoting populist cliches: ‘will not bow to terrorism’, ‘resilient spirit of Mumbaikars’.
People work because they don’t have a choice. Not because they aren’t afraid.
They could have helped coordinate relief and casualty/survivor lists. The anxiety caused by the need to know the fate of a loved one is traumatic.

On the other hand there were people who rushed to the aid of victims.
Like a certain businessman, who rushed home and brought wads of money,
distributing over INR 200 k to victims for buying life-care medicines prescribed by doctors for an emergency operation (at a time like that nobody has money in hand). Angelic.

Thursday, 13th July, 2006

Two days later, on 13th morning, I phoned a friend of mine after reaching office.
For two months, we’ve been travel companions on the way home and gradually became friends.
She’d left office on 12th noon and I presumed it was because of a mouth ulcer that was hurting her.

I was shocked as she sobbed and told me she lost her father yesterday. It was a health complication and totally unexpected. I couldn’t get my mind to focus on work all day, as I was feeling for her.

After work visited her home and saw first-hand, the grief of losing a dear one. It pained me to see the grief in her eyes, always does when you care about someone. It felt strangely better though, just being with her for a little while.

And it still wasn’t over.

Friday, 14th July, 2006

Next day when I went to office and was settling in for the day, I got a call from my father, telling me that a close family friend, Santan Rodrigues had died in the morning.

It was a shock. Santan’s son phoned to tell Dad, but we had an incoherent picture.

Dad set out from home and me from office for their home in Borivli-W.
The moment I stepped into their seventh floor flat in numbed silence is etched in my mind.

My eyes fell on a group of men standing in the centre. I saw footwear at the door, so I slipped off my shoes. Then I saw a white shroud on the floor and for a moment I was numb.
I lifted my eyes to see Patricia, Santan’s wife standing beside the body, her son at her side. I rushed over to hug her, not knowing what to say as her head rested on my chest for a moment, sobbing all the while. Reached out and comforted the son who was right besides her also crying. Then she braced herself as Santan’s sister read out the final prayer, all the while sobbing herself. It felt like barely 2 minutes had passed.

Three men in blue uniforms (hospital staff maybe) started to lift the body. They motioned to me as I was the closest. We lifted him by the six handles (3 per side) sewn into to the heavy canvas cloth on which it lay enshrouded.
It was a strange feeling, heavy on the heart.
We took the lift down, laid the body on a stretcher, and carried the stretcher to the waiting ambulance.
Having not spoken a word to anyone til now, I learnt from them that the body would be kept at the hospital morgue overnight.
The door slammed shut, the ambulance left.
Mourners arrive and I took the lift with them.
They were her office colleagues and boss. Learnt what had happened as she narrated it to them. It pained me to see her grief, my heart sank every time I saw her sob.
She kept saying, ‘he never told me he had a health problem, kept saying he was alright…’

When Dad arrived, she said she wanted to get Santan a fitting obituary in the press. Her heart was bent on it, you could tell.
Dad made some calls, looked up Santan’s achievements, and we left at 4:15 pm, me for home, and he for his former office of The Free Press Journal at Nariman Point. He wrote a good obituary which appeared in the next day’s FPJ daily.
Pat was happy with it, and that’s what matters.

Next morning, Dad left early to get there to meet the morgue van before it arrived.
Mom and I reached by 8 am. By then Dad had arranged for the coffin to be laid out at the head of the drawing room where people could line up and circle alongside to pay their respects.
Santan was laid out in a suit, with fingers clasping a rosary - peaceful expression on his face. It was surreal - you might almost think, a person is asleep and want to shake him out of his slumber.
Pat would repeatedly touch his forehead and wipe it with a handkerchief. The grief on her face keeps coming back to me. Mom sat down beside her to comfort her, and I reached out and squeezed her hand to express what little solidarity I could.
For some time it was just a blur of visitors arriving and floral wreaths and bouquets being placed.
After prayers and the priest’s arrival, we moved the coffin down the flight of stairs.
Mike (Michael Pereira - Adml John Pereira’s son) led the way with the feet end, and two guys at the sides near him, and I was supporting the head end with another two guys on the sides close to me. It was heavy, especially as the foot end tended to be raised at certain points while descending each flight of stairs.

I was surprised by the large gathering waiting downstairs.
We tailed the hearse to IC Colony Church, where a short mass was held.
The coffin was shifted to ground outside. Pat kissed and bade Santan a tearful farewell. Everyone paid their respects by symbolically putting a trowel of salt on the deceased.
The body was taken to the cemetry and lowered to the strains of ‘Farewell to Thee’, at which point Dad lost control and started sobbing and I got moist-eyed as well.
Ashes to Ashes, Dust to Dust: friends and family cast a trowel of earth, the grave was filled, final condolences said, and it was all over.

A memory that stays, is the way two boy classmates stayed by the son’s side like guardian angels. The smallest of the trio had his arm wrapped around the son all the time while he sobbed and never let go. The boys stayed with him constantly before and after the burial. It’s good to have friends like that, who give you strength when you need it the most.

We stayed with Pat, went back to their home, and finally left at noon.

A sad week, filled with loss and mourning.
There is just one thing I can take home from all this. In the end all that remains are the memories of the love and happiness you share with the ones that matter the most.
All else is just dust in the wind.

God have mercy!

Comments

2006-08-16T19:54:00.000+05:30
author: KD13
I’ve seen many people die but before I was too young for it to affect me.
A person was alive one day, dead the next, n my life remained unaffected.
Its only as I’ve gotten older that I’ve started to imagine myself in the place
of the family of the deceased n now I can take no death lightly, because
every death is just a reminder that someday it’ll be someone I love.