Authors: Sindhu S.
The Plunge (2 page)
Anjali’s job had been her only focus until Siddharth happened. Then her world took a hundred-and-eighty-degree turn. Only if she listened to reason would Anjali escape from this distraction.
Swapna drifted off to sleep, hoping her friend would be saved in time.
.
“W
ake up, it’s a tremor! A tremor, Swapna.”
It was Anjali shrieking, but Swapna could not open her eyes. She could barely move. She had no strength in her body. She was dead to the world.
Someone pounded on the doorbell. It was then that she finally woke up, startled.
She was alone in her apartment.
It was again a dream, that recurring dream. No earthquake. No one was wailing. The doorbell ringing nonstop was the only reality at the moment, one that persisted until she opened the door.
“Anjali, it’s you! I expected you only by evening.”
Anjali stood there with a playful smile, her cheeks revealing two perfect dimples. She was back from her assignment in Kutch.
She entered the house, flung her bag to the mattress on the floor and sat down. She wore a navy blue
salwar
and
kurta
with a white
dupatta
. Her hair was carelessly tied into a ponytail.
“I had that dream again, about the tremor and me being immobile,” said Swapna, as she sat near Anjali. “Guess what! You were trying to wake me up. I couldn’t even open my eyes, as usual.”
“Don’t worry; I don’t give up that easily. I shall keep trying till you wake up,” said Anjali, smiling. “Where’s Rishi?”
“He has gone to his skating class with some other kids from our building.”
Anjali began excitedly, “You know, Swapna, it’s really tragic in Kutch. It’s still a mess.”
Swapna sighed.
“Entire rows of houses are still lying in ruins. Even nine months after the quake, no government agency has acted with urgency. No effort to normalise lives. People who have lost their loved ones and all their savings are stuck in this tragic situation, waiting for someone to put their lives back in order. Isn’t it appalling?”
“Anjali, they don’t have a choice. They have to wait for help. They can’t rebuild with their meagre savings when there are fresh tremors even now.” Swapna ran her palms over her face to wipe away drowsiness, yawning.
Anjali seemed to have accepted her argument.
Swapna looked at Anjali as she sat lost in thought. She could sense her unvoiced desperation. She understood her to some extent. They had spent eight years of their childhoods together in a boarding school in Thiruvananthapuram. Swapna Darshan and Anjali Menon met as classmates in class three and became close friends. When they later shared a hostel room, during their graduation days in the Mar Ivanios College, their friendship became even more intense. It was such a relief that they could meet up occasionally after Anjali began living in Mumbai. Whenever her job as reporter with the
India Independent
required her to travel to Saurashtra on writing assignments, she came over.
Anjali often expressed awe at her willpower, despite what she thought was a very depressing situation. It also irritated Anjali that she was resigned to the idea that things would happen as they had been designed by fate.
“How can you be so stoical?” she asked from time to time.
Anjali was eager to discuss Siddharth Verma, her Siddh, the next morning. It was as if she had run out of other topics.
Swapna tossed in the spices and sliced
idlis
into the hot frying pan.
“Why are we humans so foolish? Don’t you agree, Swapna?”
When she turned her head, eyebrows raised, Anjali went on to explain. “We live within the confines of norms, stifling our freedom, so that others can feel secure. But why?”
Swapna smiled. Anjali believed in following her instincts. She considered the society as more of an annoyance than a support system. At times, she was a slave to her impulses. Siddharth was the best example. “I love him,” she had said the first time she heard him, only a voice. A few months later, she was deeply in love with a man she had seen only briefly, and just once.
“We should allow people to live their lives, right? It’s rude to intrude, or set rules.”
Swapna looked at her and smiled again. Anjali blushed and looked away to avoid her gaze.
The smell of filter coffee filled the room. “Wow! Lovely.” Anjali beamed. She closed her eyes, breathing in the aroma. “I love this.”
“I know, I remember,” said Swapna, laughing. “You still collect those silver wraps from cigarette cases?”
“Of course, yes! They still pep me up, like during those boring lectures in college. You remember?”
She laughed, recalling Anjali’s enactment of Father Thomas’ lectures.
Anjali turned around and snatched the filter from her.
“Let me do it,” she insisted.
Swapna blinked, shaking her head in disbelief.
“You haven’t changed,” she said.
Anjali emptied the decoction into the boiling milk.
“Sugar? Two spoons?”
Swapna nodded.
Anjali mixed the coffee as she spoke. “It’s a crime, Swapna. You suppress a desire, sooner or later it will reemerge at the least expected moment, which is dangerous and embarrassing. You would then be forced to lead a miserable life, upsetting yourself and others.
“Isn’t it lovely to keep your little secrets to avoid hurting people?” Anjali had fixed her gaze on her.
Swapna noticed her friend’s passion and felt dejected.
These were appalling arguments, the kinds that left her dumbfounded. They made her fear for Anjali’s future. She was clearly obsessed with Siddharth. What if she agreed to a clandestine relationship with him? It would be emotional suicide. The entire blame would be on her, not him. Men were never wrong. They were always seduced. What a depressing mind-set!
“See you in the evening,” Swapna called out to Anjali as she rushed towards the bus stop, carrying her logbooks and purse. Teachers should not be late; she must hurry. Rishi followed her.
As Anjali left the next morning, Swapna said, “Message me once you reach Mumbai, and email me the updates.”
She appeared to be at peace with herself. Swapna wished it would remain so forever.
Anjali turned around at the gate of the apartment block with a mischievous smile.
“Don’t worry about me. I am in safe hands,” she winked, giggling.
Not a good sign; her heart skipped a beat as Anjali walked away into an unknown future.
.
T
he Saurashtra Mail chugged along the barren outskirts of Rajkot on its journey to Mumbai.
The train mostly carried people from Rajkot and other districts in Saurashtra to Mumbai, where they worked during the week and returned home for the weekend.
The faces of people she had met in Kutch flashed through her mind, adding to the ache in her heart.
It was her second trip to the region. The first time was a month after the earthquake, when Siddharth had assigned the special weekend feature to her.
Anjali kept turning on her berth. She spent the sleepless night worrying.
What turn would her relationship with Siddharth take? It was a special relationship. “Strange” is what he called it in one of his emails.
She was aware of the strong bond that was forging between them. She adored him, even without knowing how the relationship would mature in the coming months.
Everything had changed in just a few months, nine months actually.
January 26, 2001, had begun like any other holiday for the people of Gujarat too: relaxed. India was celebrating one more Republic Day.
It changed into the unexpected as the clock ticked 8:46 a.m. It began as a mild tremble; then the ground on which they stood, sat, and slept…shook crazily. It was as if a giant had picked up the buildings, shaking them furiously.
“It’s a blast,” someone shouted. “Run, run to the middle of the room, the walls may collapse,” another said. People in high-rises panicked, not sure what to do. Families gathered their loved ones and moved about frantically inside their homes, searching for safe spaces.
“What if the fan falls on us? What if the chandelier collapses?” These thoughts, spoken aloud, provoked shrieks.
Someone yelled, “Get out of the flats. Run down.” This was followed by a rush.
“Don’t use the lift, it’s not safe.” A voice shouted to those who were hurrying towards the elevator.
Confusion, panic, and chaos were the order of the day.
Seconds later, as the ground gave way, homes turned into graveyards. Hundreds of lives lay buried under the rubble that until then had been their homes.
Fatigue had followed sleepless nights. Fear and uncertainty made living miserable. Every mild tremor created more panic. People rushed out of their homes and gathered below apartments. Neighbours who had hardly spoken to each other before the tragedy exchanged hesitant smiles and shared worries. It was quits to high-rises. Residents chose open grounds over cosy apartments.
He had first called her up eight months ago from their Delhi office to discuss a special report. He was head of the Sunday desk of the
Independent
. As soon as the call ended, she had regretted not having paid attention to him when he had visited the Mumbai office a week before.
Her assignment was a human-interest story on the earthquake victims in Kutch. A month after the earthquake, survivors were still in shock, but recovered enough to narrate their personal tragedies.
“Get the emotions,” Siddharth had said.
She loved his voice, warm and reassuring. He sounded familiar though it was the first time he had spoken to her directly. She did not think much about him after that, though a special feeling had settled inside her. The excitement lingered on through the trip.
The tour was a painful experience. The badly affected villages resembled excavation sites with mounds of crushed possessions and culture. A part of the present had instantly been transformed into history, in barely seventy seconds.
Reporters wrote exclusive stories in the initial days after the tragedy. Strong bylines made them more visible to the higher-ups.
Politicians flew in to gain mileage from the tragedy. But there was a clear lack of coordination in relief work. Truckloads of used clothes donated by people from other states lay dumped on the roadside. Emotions lay sprawled across the landscape, forsaken.
While quake victims looked for assurance that their lives would be back to normal soon, authorities were busy counting financial losses. One look and Anjali could see the irony.
“This waiting around and suspense is killing,” whined every affected person.
Their jeep moved past rubble, humans, livestock, worries, and uncertainties. The road was uneven, cut through the wilderness of the parched Saurashtra, winding towards the devastated Kutch. There was hardly any habitation along certain stretches. Instead, they saw dry grass and barren land. Twice they passed caravans, nomads moving from the arid region towards greener pastures, with their cattle. There were only a few edible patches in the drought-hit region.
