Anjar was devastated–and so would be its families. The 400 students were buried under a huge and horrifying pile of rubble. “There is no possibility of anyone surviving,” said Narendra Modi, a Bharatiya Janata Party leader who visited the scene.
The massive earthquake that struck the industrial state of Gujarat was India’s worst in half a century. It turned what was supposed to be a joyous celebration into a nationwide day of mourning. At the weekend the death toll had surpassed 13,000, according to federal emergency officials, with more than 33,000 people injured. Those are rough estimates; it could take weeks to assess the full scope of the disaster. Almost certainly, the death count will rise. Indian Prime Minister Atal Bihari Vajpayee, after an emergency cabinet meeting, put the Gujarat relief effort on a “war footing.” The central government–criticized for its handling of the 1999 Orissa cyclone–flew in 10,000 tents and 10,000 tons of grain for food. Army battalions were diverted to the quake zone, bringing cranes and listening devices capable of locating survivors. Teams of foreign rescue experts rushed to Gujarat. Pakistan put aside its bitter rivalary with India and offered financial aid.
The city of Bhuj (population: more than 150,000), on Gujarat’s western flank, was the hardest hit. It is just 12 miles from the epicenter of the quake–which measured 7.9 on the scale. Nearly every building in Bhuj was destroyed or seriously damaged. Power and telephone lines were out, as were road, bridge and rail links, preventing large-scale emergency relief. Military transport planes carried doctors and medical supplies into the city, where an estimated 6,000 people were killed, and airlifted out the injured. It was a precarious business: with power, radio transmitters and telephones down, the planes were guided by a solitary radio operator hovering in a helicopter above a military airfield. Bhuj’s only civilian hospital was damaged, forcing doctors to operate on the injured in tents at the air base. Hundreds of people were brought to the makeshift hospital–some carried by friends, some pushed in handcarts.
Throughout Gujarat, families waited grimly for word on missing loved ones. In Ahmedabad, a desert city of 4.5 million people, swarms of rescuers clambered over the carcass of the four-story Swami Narayan School. Thirty-nine teenage students were in the school when the quake hit, studying for their leaving certificates. The yellow building had been built quickly–in three months–and opened only four months ago. Workers pounded sledgehammers on concrete slabs that once formed floors and ceilings. Others clawed at the wreckage with bloodied hands. Fifteen youngsters were pulled out of the school, four of them alive. One child’s hand grasped vainly up through twisted metal. As the weekend passed, the cries that had guided frantic helpers fell ominously silent. Rescuers said 24 students were still beyond their reach. Their parents, despair etched on their faces, stood among schoolbooks adorned with Hindu gods. “I’ve been here for hours,” said Indu Rawal, awaiting word of her daughter, Chhaya, 16. “I’ll stay until they find her, but only God knows if she is alive.”
Perhaps it shouldn’t have been a surprise. The subcontinental region is prone to earthquakes. India is home to the greatest continental collision on Earth: the Eurasian and Indo-Australian tectonic plates meet along the country’s northern border, forming the Himalayas. Western Gujarat is especially vulnerable. The area lies just off the Allah Bund (Wall of God) fault, the site of major quakes in 1819 and 1956. Multistory buildings in the region are supposed to be built to withstand earthquakes, but a federal official told NEWSWEEK that many do not meet mandated standards. Planners or builders often ignore them.
The construction-safety issue will be taken up later. Last week in Western India, the talk was only of lost lives and lucky survivors. Nirav Parikh had just sat down to breakfast when his apartment building started swaying. “I was absolutely sure it was an earthquake,” he said. “I grabbed my 5-year-old son and managed to get out into the courtyard in 25 seconds.” Moments later, his complex collapsed like a house of cards. In the 24 hours after the initial catastrophe, 83 aftershocks kept people in a state of fear. A day after the quake, the town of Pachchao was still waiting for help to arrive. Khadija Banu rocked back and forth on her feet, grieving silently. She lost two children. “There is nothing left between the sky and the earth,” said Dawood Ismail Siddhi, Banu’s brother. Hearts are empty, too.
