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What does this January 26 have
in store for Bhachau?

Savera R Someshwar in Bhachau

Even the mellow light of the setting sun cannot hide the ruins that was once the prosperous trading town of Bhachau in the district of Kutch in Gujarat.

Much of the detritus of this town, flattened in the quake that tore Gujarat apart on January 26 last year, has been cleared, but rubble still remains. As do the occasional iron rods, twisting up in seemingly mute plea towards the darkening sky.

"Watch out," a voice warns and I barely escape one such sharp rod hidden in the deepening dusk. "You're a year late," there is a smile in the voice now. "This is nothing compared to what had happened here last year," says Ambalal Joshi, as he walks towards his home across what the residents of Bhachau now jocularly refer to as their "cricket maidan."

This maidan was where many of them lived before January 26, 2001. This was where most of them lost at least one member of their family.

And now, none of them are sure as to what is going to happen on January 26, 2002. There is a kind of hesitant uncertainty among the residents of Bhachau as they await the dawn.

A dimpled student of Bhachau's Girl's High School is sure she knows the answer. "It's the bhukamp's (quake's) first birthday," she laughs in her open-air classroom. "It is sure to drop in tomorrow to celebrate." Her fellow classmates giggle her down, but some of them admit they are scared.

They lost over 80 of their schoolmates in the deadly quake. Their school has been reduced to rubble; the only standing building is inhabitable, but is yet to be razed. Many of them have also lost family members. The school, however, will continue with the customary dhwaja vandan (veneration of the national flag programme) and patriotic songs with which they mark the Republic Day each year.

"We don't want to break tradition," says the school's principal-in-charge, Chandrika Jhadeja, soon after she finishes rehearsing the Republic Day songs with her students. "We know many parents do not want their children to come to school tomorrow, we know that many children themselves are scared. But we have told them that, if a quake strikes, they are safer here in the open than within their homes."

Speak to the town's parents - some of whom lost their children in the quake - however, and they insist they will send their children to school. They, too, don't want to break the tradition.

Across the road, in grounds that now house the primary school, a huge shamiana is being set up. Many of Bhachau's remaining families will gather there to pray for the souls of those who are no longer with them.

Driving up and down the road in a hired autorickshaw is an elderly bearded man, reminding the businessmen that tomorrow marks a day of mourning; that all shops should remain shut. There is no one in Bhachau who will not accede to his request. Shutters tomorrow will remain downed.

At a little distance away, in one of the numerous tin sheds that now substitute for town's shops, sits Mansukhbhai Patel, freelance-journalist and advertising manager of the district's most popular newspaper Kutch Mitra. His little shed doubles as a newsstand, a studio and a meeting point for the people of Bhachau.

Today, however, he is in no mood for business. He lost his younger sister, who he says used to be his right hand in his various businesses, and he cannot help but remember her. Business is tragically good: Over 50 obituaries lie on his table as people troop in, determined to commemorate their loved ones.

"They don't even know how to do this: they come with pictures of all sizes and say they want to put them in the paper. I have to write the obituaries for them and make photocopies [incidentally, the PCO-cum-STD booth-cum-fax shop next door is doing roaring business]. It is a very sad day. I don't feel like doing this. It is bringing tears to my eyes."

Everyone who steps in looks grim: but this is something that they feel they need to do.

In the passport-sized pictures are a town's ghosts and its people's unforgettable grief. Sisters, mothers, fathers, sons, brothers, daughters, uncles, aunts. The relationships continue to exist even if the people no longer do.

At a distance, in the maidan, bats begin their night hunting. A few skeletons still stand; of buildings that once housed homes; of families who once were normal.

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