The outsiders
November 19, Majher Killa
He was standing by the wrecks--nothing new on this devastated island that one should notice in particular. A diminutive figure and fair-looking, not the usual figure of a dark, scrawny person on the island. Desperation and worry written all over him. A deep cut mark on his chest.
Anil Babu approached us uncertainly and said meekly: "Sir, can you help me?"
His voice had the edge of something that stopped us. A man desperately looking for help. For the first time he came into our notice. Not just one wound, he bore many. His shirt was smeared with dark patches of lubricant.
"Sir, I am left alone on this island. There is nobody to look after me," Anil Babu said.
Everybody is left alone on this island--nothing new in that, too. But then, everybody seems to be united by the stroke of some strange unity. Everybody is wandering around in groups either in search of food or bodies of friends and relatives. So, why should he be standing here alone by wreckage?
We scanned the ruins and noticed something completely new that we have not seen before. A chunk of steel that resembles a lathe machine. A few spanners. An iron box. A lubricating machine. We asked him what his problem is.
Anil Babu told us a story similar to others' but different in a few ways.
He is not what you call part of this fisherman community. He is an outsider in Majher Killa. He had ventured into this island all by himself to set up a mechanical workshop to fix engines of the fishing trawlers. A friend had also opened his shop just 20 yards away which now remains in a heap of jumbles.
But that does not make his case any different. He can still go to the cyclone shelter where the local top businessman, who controls the fishing enterprise, was managing relief with whatever was available.
"They do not give me any relief, they do not help me because I am not on his payroll," Anil said. "I went to him and begged for food and water. But he just asked me to find my own way out. Sir, I have nothing left. How can I survive?"
He was sobbing. Silently. Nobody on this island cries out loud. They only mutter. It is a strange village where everybody seemed to have lost their voice.
But with rebuilding starting soon and life beginning anew, this place needs Anil. There are hundreds of trawlers which need their engines to be repaired. Why should Anil Babu leave this chance to make a few extra bucks?
"What should I work with? I have no tools left. I need to go home to my family, find some money and come back. Otherwise I will not survive. Just land me on a road," Anil said.
Anil's friend Subrata died long ago, five days exactly after cyclone Sidr hit this island. They lived on the fringes of Majher Killa and were the first to face the battering. Subrata's body was found lying in a canal--a wrench, his own tool, stuck deep into his head.
Then came Sumon, hardly 12, with hands and legs like sticks. His eyes are red. Lips swollen. "Sir, I want to go home," he muttered in a rasping voice. "My father is dead. I have not eaten anything for two days."
The boy should go to the shelter and ask the businessman--after all, he came here to work for him, to toil from morning to night in the salty weather, risking his life. He is only a small boy and should be taken care of in the first instance.
"Sir, they do not listen to me. I stood in line for food, but then when it came everybody scrambled for it. They pushed and shoved me away. Sir, I cannot fight with the grown-ups. I will die."
We looked at the crowd at the cyclone shelter in the distance. They were milling around in tens and twenties. They know food will come here, sooner or later. They want to be there in case they miss the train.
Comments