Once there was Bhuj...

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It was a cool January morning in 1999 when Chaweewan Chuchuay and I first arrived in Bhuj in the Western Indian region of Kutch. Within a few hours we had hopelessly fallen in love with the town. As we roamed its streets, we seemed to enter an India that, for the most part, we thought had disappeared under the ruthless onslaught of modernisation.

Bhuj was a photographer's dream: From the Aina Mahal, the "Palace of Mirrors" in the centre of the old city, quaint narrow lanes lined with pastel-coloured dolls' houses spread in all directions, leaving us literally in a maze of wonder. Cows strolled next to townsfolk who had blankets wrapped around their shoulders to keep them warm and whose crinkled, yet smiling faces mirrored the harsh climate of the area--the Kutch region could be mercilessly hot in the summer and bone-chillingly cold in the winter. Yet, its people were invariably warm. As we roamed through Bhuj and clicked dozens of reels of film, at every corner somebody cheerfully wished us a good morning or just blessed us with the most welcoming of smiles. As we travelled to far-flung regions of Kutch, somebody would take me by the hand and show me around his village, and show me off to his relatives and friends.

Chaweewan and I were unanimous; we loved the people, we loved both Bhuj and Kutch, and we loved that tiny little tea shop near the Aina Mahal in which we fortified ourselves with endless cups of tea every morning to get ready for the day's work. Little did we know that the pictures we took would soon have sad historical value.

It was also a cool January morning when cruel fate struck. On 26th January 2001, as India proudly celebrated Republic Day, an earthquake measuring 7.9 on the Richter scale shook Bhuj and the surrounding Kutch area. I happened to be in Mumbai (Bombay) at the time and at a quarter to nine in the morning the ground began to vibrate and people living in high-rise apartment buildings came running out into the open, in sheer panic. That was it, I thought; nothing more, just a slight tremor or a mild earthquake, similar to many that I had experienced before in India.

Then the terrible news from the Kutch, hundreds of kilometres away, started to trickle in: 50 people dead, then 100, 500, 1,000... Only many days later would we know the appalling truth. The earthquake had killed some 30,000 people, and countless others had been injured or maimed. The quake also shook Chaweewan and me to the core. Bhuj had effortlessly become one of our favourite places in India and now we would never be able to see it again as we had just two years earlier. Ninety percent of the buildings were completely or partly destroyed. Bhuj was virtually wiped off the map. A whole town, gone in a few seconds. And why some of the most hospitable and gracious people on this planet had to die, I could not, and never will, understand.

Whenever I think of Bhuj, I remember Mr. Shah. A wrinkled old man in his seventies, Mr. Shah was a retired school teacher who, instead of sitting idly at home, continued to teach English. For the sheer love of his profession, without any remuneration, just to be paid in smiles by his pupils. He loved children, he loved the English language and he loved teaching. The school that he taught in lay in the grounds of the Aina Mahal. One day, just as Chaweewan and I had entered the grounds to shoot the palace in the crisp golden morning light, Mr. Shah approached us and we had a delightful conversation. Finally, the bespectacled Mr. Shah, a woollen cap on his head to protect him from the morning chill, took both my hands, pressed them warmly and said: "And from now on we will be friends forever and ever!" I was deeply moved. There was nothing fake in his gesture, just heartfelt warmth, friendliness and affection. "Friends for ever and ever", he repeated, still firmly pressing my hands.

Sometimes I wonder what happened to Mr. Shah on that terrible January morning. I just hope he and his family are still alive.

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