As I try to rinse off blood from my clothes, I can’t help but think of Kamla, or so I believe her name was. I feel insensitive in doing so, as if I too am a part of the conspiracy to remove any trace of her. Until yesterday I could only think of the pool of blood around her, that scene imprinted on my memory. But now her face seems to be calling out to me. Again and again.
Kamla’s death will go down in the records as another death under the killer Blueline buses that ply in Delhi.I don't know what the latest count is and wonder if the list has already beenupdated with her name.
What am I blathering on about? In short, it's about an accident that happened between3 and 3:15 pm on Wednesday, March 26. Almost bang opposite St. Stephen’s Hospital at TisHazari. It involved a bus on route number 721. No, I did not witness the accident when it happened but itcertainly happened moments before I had crossed over to the side of the road, after visiting my friend who was admittedin the hospital. Normally, I would have taken the walkway and not crossed theroad., as it connects directly to the Metro station, but strangely enough, that particular day I decided to take the bus instead.
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While crossing the road, I saw a bus stopping on the other side, and I thoughtperhaps there was a bus stop there. By the time I reached the other side,however, people were shouting and pointing towards the bus. My eyes followed. And saw an old woman lying under the rear of the bus. From that distance too, I could see her and a lot of blood where her right leg must have been. I wasstunned and in a state of shock until my own shriek brought me back to senses, whenI saw a man trying to pull her out from under the bus by yanking the dangling leg. I am sure he meant to help,but it was all just too gory.
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Those were the strangest moments spent there, in those 20 or so minutes until we could finally take her to the hospital. She wasalive, even conscious throughout. Two men somehow managed to drag her out from under the bus and propped her up. My mind racing, I was feeling quite helpless because we were right opposite a hospital and all I could see was more and more vehicles and people passing by, pausing to look, nod their heads, and move on…Not a single car stopped to help. All autowallahs sped off saying it was a police case. I couldn’t understand why nobodyjust ran across to the hospital to call emergency. But then nor had I. Five minutes down,a bit of consciousness dawned and it became clear to me that I had to do something,else she, being in a state of shock, would continue sitting on the road and people would continue crowding around her, or passing by, as if it was a daily exercise for them. Thankfully I have been a regular visitorto St. Stephen’s hospital, so I had their telephone number. The police arrived within ten minutes of calling.
We somehow managed to pick her up and put her in an auto. It was difficult to pick her because I didn’t knowhow to hold her leg. I can still feel the warmth of dripping blood and the mass of nerves and muscles under my hand where I held her. Once inside the hospital, the doctors took over. I remember her asking me to pick up her slippers from the road when we were putting her in the auto. One of them had broken. I remember looking for a spare pair of slippers at home that night. I remember her tight grip when I held her hand on the stretcher. I remember, for the first time ever, feeling what cold sweat is when I stroked her forehead in the emergency ward. Then they took her away into an operation theatre.
She died the same evening. I was told the next day that her family members had been informed, but the body would be in the mortuary until they did the payment. Evidently she was from a poor family. She was probably headed home after a check up at the hospital. Her card didn’t have any phone number on it, only a single lineaddress: 3263 Bahadurgarh Road. She came from that far for a medical treatment, at that age, alone and by bus. I do not know who she was, how many family members she had or what exactly happened that afternoon. What I can constantly see again and again in my mind are her eyes-- crying for help, in complete despair.
The bus driver, ofcourse, had taken off the moment the accident happened. I remember having felt a surge of anger and feeling very murderous at that moment when she was lying on the road, with streaks of blood flowing away from her, following the slope of the road…the red linesof blood under the Blueline bus. Maybe I feel so strongly about this deathbecause I witnessed it. But Blueline accidents -- no, murders -- have been happening everyday. We blame the government and the government blames the bus owners. People become figures and life moves on. But it could have been anybody in place of Kamla.
She is the 20th Blueline bus victim this year, as we come to the end of thefirst three months. Perhaps some government babu would argue that this meansthere is an improvement as last year’s toll was 120 deaths. A few days ago the Delhi High Court termed theBlueline buses as "killer", but the buses still ply, I still use them, as domany others, because there is no other alternative. I believe they call it theTINA effect. There Is No Alternative. Or is there?
