A single death is a tragedy, a million deaths a statistic. The Gujarat earthquake of 26th January 2001 shook the entire nation in morning hours while annual parades of the Republic Day were being celebrated with fervor in every part of India . True, the recent spate of man-made violence in Gujarat may have completely overshadowed the sorrow and needs of the people who survived this sad act of God. But to me it was an unforgettable exposure to what I can call large-scale human suffering. Here's a small account of what happened in the aftermath of the earthquake, when my team and I launched a small relief operation to help our affected brethren.   

It was 4 o'clock in the morning, when our train jerked to stop at Baroda railway station. Starting from New Delhi we were headed towards Jawahar Nagar, a small village situated in northern Kutch along the natural border with Pakistan. Awaiting on the platform was our immediate source of inspiration - Dr Jignesh (name changed), who had not slept for a couple of nights after the shocking upheaval. An emotional ex-professor of English Literature from Baroda, Dr Jignesh, would go out of his way to help the tribals of Gujarat and adjoining states of Maharashtra and Madhya Pradesh, even in normal times. It was the most poignant of all situations for him. But with a humble smile on his face expressing gratitude to the software company we belonged, he quickly saw us off with a roadmap pointing at Jawahar Nagar, to get on with his routine work of persuading other corporate citizens for help. 

A truckload of more than hundred types of 'necessary' items, sponsored by our colleagues, had already been flagged off from Delhi on his advice, to reach Jawahar Nagar almost the same time when our team of five would reach the village. 

We hit the roads of Gujarat before 5.00 a.m. for the destination 500-something kms away from Baroda. Surprisingly, for about 350 kms of the initial stretch there was no sign of any disaster, neither on houses nor on roads. The airstrip-like national and state highways only reflected the prosperity of the state of Gujarat. A bridge over the Little Rann of Kutch that joins Kutch region with mainland Gujarat, was the first place we could spot cracks. But then followed in quick succession, series of collapsed houses and motels, deserted petrol pumps, dead animals and clusters of small NGO camps. Our roaming mobile phones turned into dumb showpieces. Bhachau town fell on our way to Jawahar Nagar, about 50 kms before it. This unfortunate town had turned into a mass graveyard. Smell of the trapped decomposing human bodies moved us deeply. "If only we had come a bit early, we could have saved some lives," felt my colleague apologetically. But seeing quite a few social workers here, we stuck to our original mission of rehabilitating Jawahar Nagarites. 

Eleven hours of motoring and finally we landed in Jawahar Nagar. The sun had begun to set for the day, and we had to expedite meeting the Sarpanch to identify their material needs. Meanwhile our truck arrived in this village of about 2,000 people and we could take a sigh of relief. The official Sarpanch Raniben Bhurabhai, was a lady, thanks to the reservation system for women. Yet, she could not come out in front of the male villagers. Whom to contact then? "Bhurabhai ke bade bhai saab," was the prompt answer. The stakeholder here was a septuagenarian brother-in-law of the official Sarpanch. When approached, much contrary to our expectation, the self-assured Sarpanch-in-law conveyed to us with joined hands, through a Kutchi interpreter, "We don't want anything, except shed of tins to shelter all our 320 families." For a moment our heart sank. We had brought tents and hundred other items but not the tin shades. 

Doubting the response of the so-called Sarpanch as ungraceful, we tried to make a quick self-estimation round in the village to know the truth. As we walked around the rubble we found many things to our surprise. There were poor and pre-quake rich. The mud and stone houses had collapsed completely. It was as if someone had bombed the village in a flimsy style. Only some time back the region had been hit by drought, then a cyclone, and finally the deadly earthquake that left 32 people dead. Many more were injured. No information was available to the relatives of those who had gone out to earn their livelihood. Some of them still heard the screams of their relatives who were buried alive. A few of them still rummaged the debris for things that could be of any use to them. Those requiring temporary shelter had been provided with Cornflakes and biscuits by an early NGO. Old bermudas, jeans, skirts and other urban outfits lay unused and scattered.

Though most of them had been rendered homeless, they displayed commendable unity. Ahirs, Kolis, Harijans, Rabaris, Gadvis, Maharajs, Jains and Muslims, all of them co-existed peacefully giving an idea of what India of yore might have been. Nobody regretted for what he was, though most of them survived only on daily wages. Reopening of the school for children, which was officially registered to run classes up to 7th standard, was not even in their dreams. But when asked whether their Sarpanch Bhai treated them well, all of them invariably voted in favour of him. 

However, we also came across a bit selfish relative of the Sarpanch who claimed that Jawaharlal Nehru was a very close friend of his late father. Trying to throw weight he further added, "My father's portrait with Jawaharlal is still hanging inside the Red Fort in Delhi." Little did he know that many people used to get themselves photographed with the charismatic Jawaharlal but hardly was anybody's photo hung on the walls of the Red Fort. Jawahar Nagar, as the name suggests, was named after Shri Jawaharlal Nehru when he had personally come to rebuild the village 45 years ago, after a similar earthquake had ruined them then. 

Soon the night spread its untamed solitude under nature's open sky. The males who held meetings throughout the day, dispersed into their wadas. Cool winter breeze with unwarranted mild tremors made the atmosphere eerier. Mercury had fallen to somewhere around 6 degrees by that time and the tiring day helped us fall asleep within minutes. 

Next day morning the Sarpanch did agree to accept select items from our list, but constantly maintained that they be provided with pucca shelter first, if possible. The remaining items that we had carried had to be painstakingly distributed in the adjoining villages of Daharampur, Vaatra, Morsar, Khirsara, Heerapur, Kanyabe, Lakhaund and Kalitadawi. But could have anybody truly helped the people of Jawahar Nagar, or any Indian village for that matter? Perhaps no one, except their own selves - provided they had equal opportunity to pursue education. Tragedies happen and are quickly forgotten. Our country is marred by shortsighted thinking and piece-meal solutions. Quite surely, hardly anybody would have gone back to check whether the poor villagers could send their children to schools. While in cities we debate over the modern-education issues like mental, physical, moral and spiritual development, the rural population does not even get an opportunity to go through primary education. 

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