Just another fire

There was a time when I would write
I would write when there was a time
Now, is neither a time, nor do I write

A tent in a mela had turned into an inflamed cocoon, with over 500 people inside it.
There was just one exit, the size of my kitchen door, blocked by the stampede trying to survive, and dying instead.

An electric fire, it electrocuted those who touched its metal frames. It started from the top, the crowd below in a panic. It was ‘a special discount’ day and the final day, literally, of the electronic goods mela, the first of it’s kind in Meerut.

The burning roof came loose, melting plastic melting flesh. Over 500 people. By the time I got there, three hours since it first appeared on television, even the blades of the ceiling fans had disappeared without a trace. Not one remained. The dead bodies and the scattered goods had been bulldozed by the police to no-one-knows where. There were people at the sight. Crazy, frenzied people. There was a smell, of burning flesh. Over 500 people. My photographer pulls out his camera. What could he possibly see? One of the crazy, frenzied people sees. He stands up and calls out to my photographer: “Idhar ao, come here quick, this is the carcass of a child,” he shouts, holding up something. “A small Child,” his eyes wide, one hand beckoning us. My photographer runs to him, returns, says he couldn’t be sure. In fact, he thought what I was standing on was a potential carcass. I step back. Over 500 people.

I visit the nearest fire station. The blame game’s begun. Then the police station. It’s one am. Then the hospitals. As I leave, I’m almost glad to bump into a tv journalist, another innocent outsider, and he asks, “Are there any worth-it shots in there?” We exchange death tolls. Both the same.

It’s anyone’s guess the death toll was at least in hundreds, we report the official count: 30. And that’s journalism. The frenzied, crazy people can hear us reporting the number. “Arrey I alone pulled out and carried over 30 bodies into the back of a truckload of dead bodies. Where are the bodies? And the trucks?” but we just look at him like he were a frenzied, crazy person. “When they came with bulldozers,” he shouts now, “there were at least a hundred bodies on the ground. Where did they take them? Why did they use bulldozers?” I nudge my photographer to get into position, Sonia Gandhi’s car is approaching. “You journalists come here, with your cameras and lie to the whole world. But we know the truth. We were here.”

“Help me find the trucks,” suddenly I care. He turns his crazy, frenzied eyes to me and through all the pushing and stampede-like chaos that everyone’s in to get a byte from Sonia, he says “Ask Sonia Gandhi”. And he’s gone. But Sonia’s here. Her car takes a circle of the site, stops, stopping a hundred journalists in their tracks. She peeks her head out of her car window, waves a raised arm at her journalist-fans, and hastily departs. And that’s journalism.

I turn and see there’s a crowd of crazy, frenzied people on the side. And they’re increasing. I decide they’re telling the truth. So I set out to get to the bottom of the trucks. I take off. My cab driver warns me nicely, he hasn’t slept all last night, so I must make him drive too much. I’ve gone deaf. So while I’m out investigating, calling up journalists, police, administration, politicians, getting clues and hints of others involved, I hear that my fellow journalists are being beaten up by a frenzied crowd. Pelted at, hospitalized just like those they’re reporting about. I had gotten some proof, but not a clue about the trucks or the bulldozers. Just stuff my editors would pat my back for. Where were they? We get into the car to follow a lead a politician gave us, a hoax of course, but I was adamant. My cab driver walked out a told me he had gone on strike. I could do what I anted but he wasn’t going to chauffer me around any more. I can’t drive. So my photographer drove, while my driver slept.

Today, six months later, neither the bodies have been found, nor the trucks, nor has anyone given and explanation for the bulldozers at the crime scene. But, another fire did break out. Don’t worry, there’ll be plenty