My Brother, the Saviour

Despite a life plagued by ill health, it is the most unlikely of things that strikes down this writer's brother.

By Hemanta K. Sarkar

I got out of bed early in the morning on Oct 5, 1995, with a bitter taste in my mouth, wondering what happened to my brother, Chandu.

Only a few minutes earlier, I had been peacefully asleep in my apartment in Houston, United States, when the telephone rang. It was my father, calling from India.

"Could you come home?" Baba said in a whisper, "Chandu is in the ICU (Intensive Care Unit)."

Later that morning, I received a telegram from a friend - it said, "Chandu expired. Come soon."

After a long flight and another six hours on a train, I finally reached Jamshedpur 40 hours later. Throughout my journey, I kept thinking about Chandu.

From his childhood days, Chandu suffered from asthma. Sometimes, these attacks were life threatening. He learnt yoga at an early age and practiced it religiously to keep his asthma-related problems under control.

When he was 26, he started having excruciating back pain. Medical misdiagnosis made things worse, and he was bedridden for several months. It took months of treatment and two years of rehabilitation before he was able to lead a near-normal life.

When I reached home, I found Maa sitting on the floor in front of a framed picture of goddess Durga, the one she kept in her worship room. She was crying her heart out and asking the goddess why she took her son's life.

I sat down next to Maa, embracing her. She cried louder. I noticed Baba standing silently in a corner. A few other people - family, friends and neighbours - were sitting or standing in the hallway.

I was still in the dark. So I went to Baba and asked what happened. Without uttering a word, he handed me a couple of newspapers. I noticed the red-ink marked articles and read them several times. Later that night, after talking with several other people, the whole story became clear.

Every autumn, Bengalis all over India and abroad worship goddess Durga in a four-day long celebration, known as the Durga Puja. In Jamshedpur alone, hundreds of neighbourhoods organise and celebrate this festival every year, and welcome the goddess with much fanfare and gusto.

On that fateful October afternoon, after the celebration ended on the fourth day, the neighbourhood Durga idol was loaded onto the back of a truck for immersion in the nearby river. Thirty children also rode the back of the truck along with the idol. Men and women followed on foot as it slowly headed towards the river. It was time to bid farewell to the goddess until next autumn.

Suddenly, the back panel of the idol, which was decorated with tinsel ornaments, came in contact with a live high-voltage electric wire carrying 10,000 volts of current. Immediately, sparks flew and the idol burst into flames.

Pandemonium broke out. Children riding the truck panicked, men and women started running and shouting. The driver stopped the truck but the sparks continued.

Chandu and another man, Roy, quickly jumped on the truck, grabbed the children and started shoving them off. Suddenly, Roy was thrown off as if some strong force had pushed him hard. Minutes later, Chandu, as he grabbed th elast child, was also thrown off the truck.

Still holding the child in his arms, he fell. He hit the pavement and blood began oozing out from the back of his head. He was rushed to hospital, and was immediately taken to the ICU. But all efforts to save his life failed.

Miraculously, Roy survived the fall, though most of his toes on his left foot were badly fractured. All 30 children who were riding the truck also escaped the jaws of death.

The morning after I arrived home, Chandu's body was brought from the morgue to our home for the last time. Hundreds of people - relatives, friends, neighbours and people I did not recognise - came to bid him goodbye. They laid flower bouquets and garlands on his body.

Maa, sitting next to Chandu's lifeless body, gently moved her hands over his face, chanted hymns and cried. Baba showered Chandu with perfume - my brother loved smelling good. I stood in a corner and watched.

Chandu appeared to be sleeping peacefully, his eyes half closed, just like when he took an afternoon nap.

While performing the last rituals at the river bank before cremation, I discovered six large dark brown marks on Chandu's body. "Electrical burns," explained one of my friends, "It's in the autopsy report." Apparently Chandu received those burns while trying to save the children. And with the last child in his arms, he received the fatal jolt of electricity that ruptured his lungs and caused the fall that broke his skull.

As Chandu's body burnt on the pyre, the weather changed abruptly - winds started blowing, dark clouds appeared from nowhere, and then it started raining heavily, as if Mother Nature had joined our sombre gathering to bid Chandu goodbye.

On that fateful autumn afternoon, my brother's bravery cost him his life. His untimely death broke my mother's heart, for she lost her favourite child. But his deed made many parents happy.

Even today, when we meet the parents of the children he saved, they always smile to express gratitude for their children's life. The children may not remember what my brother and Roy did, but the parents will. for as long as they live.

Taken from Starmag 12 July 2009