Tragedy-stricken Morbi has no faith in its politicians, no hope of succour or change from the upcoming Gujarat elections. So it’s seeking solace in superstition.
“It’s fate,” says Jeetubhai Patel, a day labourer, in an eatery. “This town is cursed. Why blame our leaders for it?”
He is talking about the tragedy of the Julto Pool, a 143-year-old pedestrian suspension bridge over the Machchhu river that collapsed on October 30, killing more than 140 people, days after being reopened following renovation.
Countrywide, many do blame Morbi’s “leaders” — the contract for renovation and maintenance was given, through an opaque selection process, to the private firm Oreva, known principally as a clock and e-bike maker.
But in Morbi, few seem to demand or expect accountability. Here, the public discourse revolves round the technicalities of the bridge, the longevity of 19th-century engineering compared with work done today, legends about the artistically inclined Jadeja dynasty that ruled this once princely state. And, of course, the “curse” on the erstwhile princes that spawns serial disasters in Morbi. Rajubhai Bhatt, a 73-year-old retired academic, explains: “When a dam on the Machchhu burst in 1979, thousands died. The 2001 earthquake broke many structures in this city. Saying that it’s a curse on the Maharajas helps people move on, although all this happened long after the merger with India (and the end of princely rule).”
Ilyas Pathan lost six from his family on the bridge, including his daughter and two sisters. He has more hope in the courts than in the government.
“A compensation of (Rs) 6 lakh per person (from the government) will not bring them back to life. Gujarat High Court is hearing the case and my only hope of accountability is from the judges. I don’t associate justice with elections,” Pathan told The Telegraph. The erstwhile royals too have announced a Rs 1 lakh compensation for each victim’s family.
But while expectations from the “leaders” are virtually nil, there’s anger behind the veneer of resignation. It spills out when residents talk about the broken roads, choked drains, and the piling garbage and dung you see everywhere in this town.
“All the kids in this street got dengue last year. If we meet the ward councillor, he says, ‘Ask the health department’. If we meet the MLA, he says, ‘Ask the municipality’,” said a woman in Gamot Lane at the Main Bazar, identifying herself only as the daughter-in-law of a resident.
In 2017, the Congress had won all the three Assembly seats in Morbi district, riding the discontent unleashed by the Patidar reservation protests. Morbi MLA Brijesh Merja later defected to the BJP and was re-elected in a by-election. An outgoing minister now, he has been dropped by the BJP this time.
The ruling party has fielded a former five-time MLA, Kantilal Amrutiya, who was seen in a video swimming in the polluted river, apparently to try and save lives, after the bridge collapse. Critics claim that the waters where Amrutiya was swimming were shallow enough to wade through.
The Congress has fielded its district chief Jayantilal Patel, a respected philanthropist who has nevertheless lost several elections. The Aam Aadmi Party has picked Patidar leader Pankaj Ransariya.
At Green Chowk — home to one of the gates of the old city and a venue for popular post-dinner adda — there’s a no-holds-barred attack on the BJP that rules the state and the municipality.
“You all saw on TV how the civil hospital was refurbished when (Prime Minister Narendra) Modiji paid a visit after the tragedy. The real daily tragedy is that we only ever get treatment for fever when we go there unless we have connections,” real-estate broker Husen A. Mir says.
“There are doctors, but when I take anyone there I never find a gynaecologist, orthopaedist or psychiatrist. We end up paying through our nose to private doctors here or in Rajkot (70km away).”
His colleague Gajendrasinh Jhala pushes away a wandering Kankrej cow and says: “Look around yourself, this is a city known for its ceramics and tiles. This was the pride of Saurashtra. It’s now a dump. There isn’t a clean park where we can go and breathe air that doesn’t stink.
“The Congress has fielded a respected man. The AAP goes door to door and campaigns; we don’t know whose votes they will cut into and where. How long can the BJP ask for votes merely in Modi’s name?”
Questioned further, the duo spring a surprise, displaying membership cards that show them to be office-bearers with the local BJP.
“Yes, we are BJP, and only the BJP wins --- because it’s written,” says their friend Nareshbhai, drawing an invisible line across his forehead. “That’s why even the Congress MLA joined the BJP.”
Lubricant seller Dharmendra Pandit says: “The BJP boys go to Congress rallies and vice versa. We need each other to get any work done, and we vote for whichever candidate can work for us.”
He explains: “We have to protect our own interests and work harder, for income is down for all businesses since the pandemic broke, and prices are up. I don’t see one election changing that. The tragedy affects us all, especially those who have lost loved ones. But life is itself a struggle here.”
At the exit of the now closed bridge lies the Panj Pirdargah. Its caretaker Mohammed Suleiman says: “When the loud crash happened, my mother thought a riot had started and her blood pressure spiked. Hearing the screams of people, she fell more ill and paranoid and we had to take her to a doctor.”
He adds: “There is no limit to human greed, whether of the company or the municipal officials. But isn’t the public also to blame for crowding on the bridge? Here people don’t blame politicians as much for the bridge collapse as they do for other problems, like sanitation.”
Queries about the voters’ expectations from a new government are met with counter-queries, particularly since the questioner is from Delhi.
“Has the AAP really improved the government schools in Delhi? It’s expensive to send our kids to private schools here,” says tailor Devjibhai.
“Do you get power 24x7 for free in Delhi?” asks savoury maker Umabhai Sakharia, referring to the power subsidy for small consumers in the capital.
Tea seller Hemantbhai interrupts him: “Maybe an alliance government will happen. It’s all about the play of fate.”
