Now I'm rewinding back to last week, to the void we entered when we embarked on the search for Pax's graveside. I had been looking for years via the Internet, but here we were physically.
The "in person" search began around Thursday midday. It was achieved 48 hours later, but you cannot imagine how turbulent those 48 hours were, the highs and lows.
So join me now as I recall...Sandeep, the local pastor who was our guide and companion for this journey arrived, and the real journey began.
We had a hired car with driver. We could not have done all of this without a car and our drivers (we had two—they alternated days) became involved in the search as well. I can’t remember their names or if we even asked their names, which was rude, but I wasn’t with it. The whole situation was dreamlike.
The evenings in Bhopal were surprisingly cool, we had a little electric blow heater, but the days were hotter than I’m used to. Being in an aircon car, or at least being in a car with the wind blowing through, made the trip bearable.
The first stop was the closest cemetery, at Bairagargh (spelling?)
It was on the main road going towards Bhopal. Where we were staying was another small township or semi-rural area. Just getting in the car and driving through the most chaotic traffic you can imagine was a lot to take in, but I wasn’t able to let the “tourist” bit of me observe it much. All my focus was...the cemetery.
So we arrived at the gates. It was obviously a cemetery as it was filled with gravestone and small tombs. It was Catholic, with a little shrine to the right hand side as you entered. Unlike the green and verdant cemeteries you find in the UK, this was dry ground, not quite barren, but almost. Various plants were growing that looked more like weeds. There were some trees. There was a path through the cemetery, and at the end what appeared to be an open church or chapel of some kind. (I will post pix later but we don't have a good connection here.)
The grave stones weren’t like British ones. They were white. Some were raised like small tombs. Everything was packed in and though there was some order, it was at the same time a bit chaotic. Many of the stones were in a poor state of repair. There were also many crosses.
Sandeep had already been to the cemetery and made enquiries. From Joaquim’s description, if Pax was laid here, he would be on the left. The caretaker took us to the place where there were graves and burials from that time. I started to cry. They left me alone. It was my time to cry, to apologise to Pax, to pray.
Meanwhile Simon and Sandeep were looking more at the cemetery, and Simon took pictures which I will sort out eventually.
It felt like it “could” be the place. The cemetery had been extended considerably since the 1980s—I presume after the gas disaster.
The caretaker told us that we could put up a stone or cross marker, even if we couldn’t exactly locate Pax’s grave. My idea had been to put a bench, but it didn’t seem the right thing for this place. There was nothing like a bench here.
My tears dried, we got back into the taxi to drive into Bhopal. We drove along the main road with the hustle, bustle and noise of traffic. The sounds of the auto rickshaws brought back so many memories. There is so much honking and beeping in the traffic. An Indian road has a very distinctive soundtrack.
Sandeep was our guide. He knew more or less what we wanted to do, and we let him take the lead.
After perhaps 40 minutes or an hour we found ourselves driving through a warren of narrow streets lined with small shopfronts. This was old Bhopal and looks now just as it would have done 30 years ago, although I cannot remember it myself. The little shops with clothes or food. Dusty, narrow lanes with broken pavements. Not as many bicycles as there used to be, but many scooters. Goats—this was funny—but small herds of goats tethered here and there, and because this was the Bhopal winter, they were keeping the goats warm. Some of them had been dressed in a person’s sweater, with their front legs fitting comfortably into the arms of the jumper. They looked quite funny.
Well, I didn’t make all of those observations on this particular car ride but over the coming days. On this ride, I was only looking without seeing, waiting, waiting, wishing, wondering, praying silently.
And so we arrived at the gates of the second Christian cemetery. This was very different. There was a narrow entrance, and as we entered, we were aware that this seemed much older. It seemed in better repair. There was a sign about the history of the ground going back to the Begums of Bhopal, which I had seen on the photographs that Sandeep had sent and researched. I’d also looked up the names on some of the gravestones so I knew a bit about some of the people buried there.
The graves were crammed in.
Again the caretaker was very kind and offered that we could build a little white stone tomb for Pax and put up a cross. I thought, even if this isn’t Pax here, at least I could do it for that poor child that was buried there. Perhaps his family had no money or possibility to put a rememberance. Or perhaps he or they died in the gas tragedy.
It seems that “losing” someone’s grave in India is not as completely strange as it would seem to us westerners. Sandeep told me the story of how he had returned to the cemetery where his father had been buried 29 years earlier and was unable to locate the grave. So they put up a cross somewhere in the cemetery. It didn’t have to be the exact spot. That story gave me some comfort.
I feel quite confused about Indian graveyard standards, because on the one hand the caretaker said that once they found the bones, they replaced the soil and won’t use that spot again; on the other, I’ve been told by quite a few people—and earlier than this trip too—that in India graves are often re-used. I suppose the only guarantee is to build one of those little stone tomb things above the ground.
So finally we left the cemetery and drove on.
The "in person" search began around Thursday midday. It was achieved 48 hours later, but you cannot imagine how turbulent those 48 hours were, the highs and lows.
So join me now as I recall...Sandeep, the local pastor who was our guide and companion for this journey arrived, and the real journey began.
We had a hired car with driver. We could not have done all of this without a car and our drivers (we had two—they alternated days) became involved in the search as well. I can’t remember their names or if we even asked their names, which was rude, but I wasn’t with it. The whole situation was dreamlike.
The evenings in Bhopal were surprisingly cool, we had a little electric blow heater, but the days were hotter than I’m used to. Being in an aircon car, or at least being in a car with the wind blowing through, made the trip bearable.
The first stop was the closest cemetery, at Bairagargh (spelling?)
It was on the main road going towards Bhopal. Where we were staying was another small township or semi-rural area. Just getting in the car and driving through the most chaotic traffic you can imagine was a lot to take in, but I wasn’t able to let the “tourist” bit of me observe it much. All my focus was...the cemetery.
So we arrived at the gates. It was obviously a cemetery as it was filled with gravestone and small tombs. It was Catholic, with a little shrine to the right hand side as you entered. Unlike the green and verdant cemeteries you find in the UK, this was dry ground, not quite barren, but almost. Various plants were growing that looked more like weeds. There were some trees. There was a path through the cemetery, and at the end what appeared to be an open church or chapel of some kind. (I will post pix later but we don't have a good connection here.)
The grave stones weren’t like British ones. They were white. Some were raised like small tombs. Everything was packed in and though there was some order, it was at the same time a bit chaotic. Many of the stones were in a poor state of repair. There were also many crosses.
Sandeep had already been to the cemetery and made enquiries. From Joaquim’s description, if Pax was laid here, he would be on the left. The caretaker took us to the place where there were graves and burials from that time. I started to cry. They left me alone. It was my time to cry, to apologise to Pax, to pray.
Meanwhile Simon and Sandeep were looking more at the cemetery, and Simon took pictures which I will sort out eventually.
It felt like it “could” be the place. The cemetery had been extended considerably since the 1980s—I presume after the gas disaster.
The caretaker told us that we could put up a stone or cross marker, even if we couldn’t exactly locate Pax’s grave. My idea had been to put a bench, but it didn’t seem the right thing for this place. There was nothing like a bench here.
My tears dried, we got back into the taxi to drive into Bhopal. We drove along the main road with the hustle, bustle and noise of traffic. The sounds of the auto rickshaws brought back so many memories. There is so much honking and beeping in the traffic. An Indian road has a very distinctive soundtrack.
Sandeep was our guide. He knew more or less what we wanted to do, and we let him take the lead.
After perhaps 40 minutes or an hour we found ourselves driving through a warren of narrow streets lined with small shopfronts. This was old Bhopal and looks now just as it would have done 30 years ago, although I cannot remember it myself. The little shops with clothes or food. Dusty, narrow lanes with broken pavements. Not as many bicycles as there used to be, but many scooters. Goats—this was funny—but small herds of goats tethered here and there, and because this was the Bhopal winter, they were keeping the goats warm. Some of them had been dressed in a person’s sweater, with their front legs fitting comfortably into the arms of the jumper. They looked quite funny.
Well, I didn’t make all of those observations on this particular car ride but over the coming days. On this ride, I was only looking without seeing, waiting, waiting, wishing, wondering, praying silently.
And so we arrived at the gates of the second Christian cemetery. This was very different. There was a narrow entrance, and as we entered, we were aware that this seemed much older. It seemed in better repair. There was a sign about the history of the ground going back to the Begums of Bhopal, which I had seen on the photographs that Sandeep had sent and researched. I’d also looked up the names on some of the gravestones so I knew a bit about some of the people buried there.
The graves were crammed in.
Again the caretaker was very kind and offered that we could build a little white stone tomb for Pax and put up a cross. I thought, even if this isn’t Pax here, at least I could do it for that poor child that was buried there. Perhaps his family had no money or possibility to put a rememberance. Or perhaps he or they died in the gas tragedy.
It seems that “losing” someone’s grave in India is not as completely strange as it would seem to us westerners. Sandeep told me the story of how he had returned to the cemetery where his father had been buried 29 years earlier and was unable to locate the grave. So they put up a cross somewhere in the cemetery. It didn’t have to be the exact spot. That story gave me some comfort.
I feel quite confused about Indian graveyard standards, because on the one hand the caretaker said that once they found the bones, they replaced the soil and won’t use that spot again; on the other, I’ve been told by quite a few people—and earlier than this trip too—that in India graves are often re-used. I suppose the only guarantee is to build one of those little stone tomb things above the ground.
So finally we left the cemetery and drove on.
The next stop was the railway station. That was a very emotional visit for me. I wrote about it already.
Then we went with Sandeep to the Mall. This was like any Western mall, spotless clean and nicely airconditioned. We went up to the food court, Simon managed to withdraw money from the ATM (it took awhile to figure out just how it worked—it was not quite the same symptom as in the west), and we decided to eat at a Greek place.
We paid a little extra to sit in the lounge with glass windows overlooking Bhopal. We ate an Indian version of a Greek lunch. Life’s symmetry; Catherine was born in Greece!
By this point I was feeling much better. Going to the first cemetery had been a gigantic emotional hurdle to cross. I could hardly believe I was there, at the place where Pax was possibly buried. But once I had done that, there was a sense of relief.
After lunch we drove out to the Bhopal Memorial Hospital and Research Centre. This is located close to the Union Carbide site and was built by Dow Chemicals. It is a whole complex and very nicely presented, although we didn’t go into the hospital proper, apparently it is well equipped. The hospital primarily takes care of survivors of the gas disaster. Besides the initial deaths, there have been ongoing problems for those who survived, including a significant amount of stillbirths and deformed babies. The hospital treats survivors for free, though other patients may pay to be treated at the hospital.
We went there because Sandeep’s wife Savita is a nurse tutor. This is a government job, and consequently they have an apartment. In fact, a few days before we left the UK, Sandeep had offered us to stay at the little guest house on the campus. By then we had already booked and paid for the homestay, so it was too late, and I was also rather reluctant to stay in a hospital as all I could think of as far as a hospital was what I remembered of the horrible place where Pax died. But as it turned out, it’s like a big campus, very secure, with trees and nice roads, and I think the guest house would have been just fine. (Next time!) Joaquim did stay there when he came so I should find out from him.
Savita had already been working in this post and living in the apartment when they met at the church, and the rest, as they say, is history, their very own love story. They are a lovely couple.
The apartments are given according to the grade of the job. The head of departments get “A” flats and doctors—and nursing tutors it seems—get “B”, whereas nurses and others get “C” or “D”. No rent is paid; this is part of the job.
Savita and their cute daughter nicknamed “Dumpy” were waiting to greet us, along with their sister-in-law and a sixteen year old girl who they more or less adopted.
We had a cup of coffee and talked and got to know each other. Savita showed me around the flat. It’s on the first floor, simple and very clean, in the typical Indian style. Floors are marble or stone; rooms are relatively largely. There was a large living room, two bedrooms—one ensuite--a utility/storage room, a kitchen, and I think there was a laundry room too. They had a top loader washing machine, the kind I might have found at home when I was a child.
It seems this continent excels in practical solutions to everyday life. I really liked the open stainless steel cabinet hanging in the kitchen. Washed dishes are placed there to dry, and left there until ready for use. No need to wash, dry, put away the dishes into a cupboard, and then get them out again!
We were invited to come back for Saturday dinner, which we accepted gladly. After fond farewells, we were back on our way to the house.
I was calm. We were fairly confident we had located Pax’s grave, at least very close to it. All that we were waiting for now was Joaquim’s arrival, and his confirmation.
We still didn’t know his arrival time, but as soon as we got back to the house and I checked my email (thank goodness for the Blackberry, it’s made communications and sending, and receiving, email so much easier because of its portability), and there was a note from Joaquim. He was arriving the following day so we arranged to pick up Joaquim from his house and go to the airport.
Thursday was over. The disappointments awaiting us on Friday were as yet unknown. But that story will have to wait for the next installment...
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