Bridge collapse tragedy looms over in Morbi

MORBI: The river Machchu reveals little, its placid waters hiding most remnants of tragedy. It is the banks that carry the scars. On the side that abuts Morbi city, stone steps lead to a small landing, moored to which is a blue rescue raft, one of the many that spent five days hunting for bodies, and finding them. On the opposite end, where a dirt path leads downwards to the edge of the water, are piles and piles of marigold garlands. Some are withered by time, laid over three weeks ago when the banks were full of rescue teams, politicians, and administrators. Others, laid by the families of those who died, are fresh, their bright orange a reminder of the pain that refuses to subside. The kin come to the banks quietly early every morning, flowers in their hands, staring out into the depths of the water before receding into their broken lives.

Above them is Morbi’s sorrow, the 145-year-old 233-metre suspension bridge that broke in the middle, plunging 135 men, women and children to their deaths on October 31, five days after it was opened after being “renovated”.

Shards of what was meant to be the floor of the bridge are still tanscreams gled in the cables that gave way, hanging precariously in mid-air. One entrance carries some evidence of the facelift that was passed off as repair. In shiny golden Gujarati letters are the words “Jhulto Pul” (hanging bridge). Operated and maintained by Oreva Group, the board proudly says. It’s a group who’s managing director, Jaysukhbhai Patel, is yet to be questioned or even named in police records. He has not surfaced since the day of the tragedy. Below the sign is a white grilled gate that now has a chain and a padlock.

There is living memory, too. Five hundred metres away,

Mohammad Anas sits forlorn in his paan stall, telling a story he has told many times before in the last three weeks. For five days before October 31, he was pleased beyond measure as business was brisk. It was just after Navratri, and Morbi was in a celebratory mood, with people turning up in hundreds to a bridge that had opened just in time for the festivity. At 6.40pm, as the sun dipped and the sky turned orange, he heard an almighty crash, and then screams. The screams of those who were hanging on to the rusted wires of the bridge, trying in vain to hold on; the screams of those who thrashed around in the river; and the of those who watched from the banks. “All of us rushed to try and save people. But there was so much chaos, even we were afraid. I jumped in, must have saved six people. But there were so many that I couldn’t. I can still hear them,” Anas said.

It is 10.30am. Anas has an audience of four people, all on their way to work. Two are quiet, drinking tea in glass cups in silent empathy. One man, Rajesh Singh, is angry and voluble. “This is all the government’s fault. They allowed the bridge to open despite shoddy work. It’s all corruption,” he says, his voice rising. Next to him is his ceramic factory colleague, Sudesh Patel, trying to calm Singh down. “There is no point blaming anyone. Jab Bhagwan ne bula liya, to manushya kuch nahi kar sakta (When God summons someone, there is nothing man can do),” he says.

Larger regional politics

In terms of the broader politics around Morbi, the seat is part of Gujarat’s Saurashtra region, which gave the Congress campaign a fillip in 2017, forcing the BJP to its lowest tally of 99 seats since 1998. In Saurashtra’s 56 seats, the Congress tally rose sharply, from 16 in 2012 to 30 in 2017.

AP FILE 135 people were killed after the bridge in Gujarat’s Morbi district collapsed on October 31.