On the First Night, Resignation

“I have seen so much, I want to cry,” a storekeeper said from behind the metal barrier he’d pulled down after the blast

“I have seen so much, I want to cry,” a storekeeper said from behind the metal barrier he’d pulled down after the blast

The mucky, slippery, littered ground at Zaveri Bazaar camouflaged the extent of the destruction. In the five metre wide epicentre lay the result of evil and the debris of panic. Matching pairs of twisted and torn rubber slippers. Upturned boxes of nasal drops strewn across pools of deep maroon. On one side stood the remains of an eating joint: a plank that served as a table, and steel thaalis soaked in a light red liquid.

In the building above the epicentre, a recent migrant from Rajasthan flew out of his makeshift bed and ran downstairs to get away from the blast. But this act only brought him closer to the aftermath of the explosion. He found himself in the middle of a street section littered with limbs and drenched in blood. He ran back up to his room, sat down, and stared at his wall. Below, the scrum of reporters that had come within a few metres of the site was pushed back to the end of the street, and then several streets beyond. This ensured that the cops worked undisturbed. Sniffer dogs came and went, detection unit members in black vests left in a row and returned in a pack. A senior officer, grey-haired and bespectacled, appeared with a retinue of guards behind him, and he proceeded to nose through the evidence beneath the blue tarpaulin used to protect the debris from rain. Under one patch lay two mangled scooters, twisted and torn. This was the most examined patch. On one side, by the upturned table and the thaalis, lay a black shoe with a red streak inside.

The explosion brought crates from the jewellery tool store crashing down, it caused metal gates to cave in on themselves, it blew shingles off the roof two floors above, it shattered windows and threw people a dozen metres away to the floor. It scorched a metal signboard that then formed heat bubbles, it ripped another signboard right off a storefront and launched it into a row of bikes parked on the side.

“I have seen so much, I want to cry,” a storekeeper said from behind the metal barrier he had pulled down after the blast. He ran to the bathroom and took refuge there with others until it became clear that the worst was over. His neighbour was right outside when it happened. He recalls seeing the inhabitants of a car eating one moment, and in the next, one of the four was ejected from it. This could not be verified; no wrecked car’s remains were on the street, and neither police nor firemen would field questions. Reporters were directed to senior officers.

And now, a couple of hours after the attack, residents were allowed to walk past the crime scene and take in what had happened. Hunched with age, a grey-haired lady held on to an officer’s hand tightly as he guided her to the blast site and then gently away. A short bearded man then appeared, and walked slowly to the store that had faced the brunt of the explosion. He lifted his right hand and pointed at the store, revealing a deep red streak from his shoulder to his elbow. For a moment he stood outside it, unmindful of the heavy rain, considering the wreckage. Then he left to wander through the hardware store, picking through the rubble. He emerged with a black pouch that he unzipped to search for papers. Done with this, he ventured in once more, lifting debris relentlessly, looking for things that were important. Then he turned around, stepped into a pool of blood, and dragged himself past the slippers, the scooter skeleton, and away from the sweet smell that hung in the air.

“Bhai! Bhai!” the storekeeper who fell down asked after him, “Paani laoon?” Bhai said nothing.

Outside the bazaar, when word of the attacks spread, it was decided that a shutdown was necessary. Men stood in groups to discuss developments, and by 7.45 pm they had begun to roll up their tarpaulin and shut shop. There were three blasts, one owner said, but added that he was uncertain. There had been word of a fourth and even a fifth blast. Someone saw two men carry a third gingerly so his head didn’t fall off.
Zaveri Bazaar had seen something like this once before, and its inhabitants wasted no time in fixing blame on lawmakers. “These MPs are to blame. They come for photo-ops, nod their head, and just leave,” said Mr Mishra, who owns a small establishment a street away. Another said resignedly, “They won’t let us earn in peace.”

But it was the Rajasthani man—the recent immigrant who ran down to escape horrors and then hurried back up because he had found them—who said what needed to be said. “Right now, it is good to be among other people.”

About The Author

Rahul Bhatia