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Author: Anand Soondas
Publication: The Times of India
Date: October 17, 2005
The earth hasn't quite stopped shaking and the mountains continue to roar, a deep, gutrural sound that makes men's faces crease in fear. The woman wrap the scarves tighter and whisper words of courage to their children.
If there is another earthquake in Chholan, a small above Mohura, there is little the people can do. They can't run up. That will have them climb the stiff mountain wall, batting against falling boulders. They can't run down. The decline is so sharp that one slip can hurtle them towards a cold river snaking a thousand feet below.
After the killer tremors of October 8, the people middle and pray that the earth doesn't swallow them. But there is another enemy looming close: the cold. Bitter, violent, scathing, murderous.
The only time there is a smile on the beaten faces is when a truck, blankets. And Life
Taking the can relief to the village isn't easy either. The truck can merely sidle up to a mountain face that has a narrow road cleaved on it. From there it is the relief workers- only the Army-and the village men who lake the dole up.
As an Army truck carrying soldiers and officers of the 14 Rajput Ragiment and Rashtriya Rifles stops by Chholan on Saturday, Nazir Ahmed tells me he has lost "five sheep, one cow and a brother". The truck, which reaches here at about 8 am, has bundles of blankets, tents and medicines. Havilder Brijesh Dubey says there is also a 250 kg generator. "It is unwieldy," he says. "But the villagers need it. They need the light."
The bundles of blankets tents are heavy. Often, while taking it up, the men stagger. They are excited, though. This is the second lot of relief that the Army has brought here. The first just vanished. There's too little for too many.
In the village, the men avoid the gaze of the soldiers and, noticing my writing pad, hurry up with their sad tales. "My granddaughter died," says Bashir Ahmed. His dark eyes, narrow cap and beard make him look like Ayatollah Khomeni. "Come back here, you!" shouts Havildar Arjun Sharma, putting up a tent for the relief materials to be displayed, Plastic chairs are placed around. There will be a senior Army officer who will be a senior Army officer who will make announcements and help. But Bashir doesn't stop. "What the Army has got is very inadequate. I need two tents. They haven't given me any blanket." A young captain charges at him angrily. Bashir disappears in the crowd.
Syed Sawkat Hussain knows some English. "I go to high school," he says. A clerk at the NTCP office in Uri, Hussain, like most others, is keen to talk about his loss. "I get tea for you, sir," he butters me up. He thinks the government will send a special engineer to his house if I write about him.
It is frightfully cold at chholan. There will be the routine rain soon and snow will follow. They need blankets and tents desperately. More then food. There houses fell under its weight.
Shafaquat Ahmed, strangely, is busy collecting the thin polythene packets used to wrap single blankets. He says it is for his family. No one knows how he will use the frail bags to help them.
By 9.30 am the villagers have formed a hopeful circle around the Army tent. Just then there is a small commotion. Someone has noticed men from an adjacent village lining up for the dole. But the "others", from Upper Chholan, are too needy and have the look of ghosts on their faces. No one has the heart to tell them to go away.
A few minutes later there is a tremor. Some rocks come tumbling down. I run towards the clearing like others. Soon there is something I can't escape. It's raining. Muhdin Shah shivers under his tattered pheran. Children begin to cry.
Intriguingly, the Army men won't start the distribution process. A major tells me they are waiting for col Navneet Chhabra to make the presentations. The men, woman and children sit in the more time but there is no trace of the colonel. I take my leave from the villagers and soldiers. They are shuffling around uncomfortably.
Not everyone loves a good quake.
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