On the evening of July 2, social media was flooded with visuals of bodies of women lying scattered on the ground in Hathras, Uttar Pradesh. Many of these women, who wore long veils, did not have dignity in death.
It emerged that they had attended a religious gathering of a ‘godman’. When the event got over, the followers rushed out and a stampede took place. By late evening, it was clear that this was perhaps the worst stampede in recent times in India. Bodies of women and children were piling up in mortuaries. As the small town of Hathras was not equipped to deal with a tragedy of this scale, many bodies were transported to places such as Agra, Etah, and Aligarh. The death toll was 121.
Within hours of the tragedy, my colleagues and I took a cab to the site. As I walked around, meeting one distraught family after another, I met a man who had lost all the women in his family — mother, wife, and daughter — in the stampede. He uncovered the face of his 10-year-old daughter for us. The sight shook me. Her small body had a Y-shaped incision, her ponytail was soaked in blood, and her eyes had scars. That image of a young life cut short so brutally will perhaps stay with me for a long time. As reporters, we are expected to be stoic in such instances. Stoicism over a long period of time can make people numb. Perhaps, that is our coping mechanism.
The wails of men, women, and children were disturbing, but I had to watch it all unfold to report on the tragedy with nuance and sensitivity. In such times, reporters cannot afford to feel ashamed of asking questions to grieving families. The news of the tragedy must be told with empathy, while holding those responsible accountable, even if the world moves on to another tragedy the next day.
On the streets near hospitals, people stood in long queues, searching for their loved ones who had gone missing. I had two jobs at the time: to note the details of the missing people and to help the kin reach the various hospitals and mortuaries where the injured and dead had been kept, respectively. This too was traumatic: every family member trembled when asked to lift a shroud. The relatives naturally looked exhausted. One woman, who had been searching for her 15-year-old granddaughter, said she had not eaten anything though someone at the site had offered her food. She looked tired and weak.
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It was humbling to speak to the villagers who had gathered at the spot. They helped the media by sharing minute details of the tragedy. They betrayed no fear of any consequence, given that the police and the administration were as responsible for the incident as the organisers. It was also troubling to see how prominent people were visiting the accident site and hospitals only to take photos.
However, journalists cannot be entirely focused on the trauma alone; we need to equally cover the police investigation. We moved on to report on the arrests being made and the amount of compensation being given to victims’ families. That is always the hardest part: to leave the grieving families who had cooperated with us while we did our job.
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While it is a struggle to report on disasters and tragedies, the stories of survivors keep us going. Where there is despair, there is always a ray of hope. One such story was of Pappu Singh from Bharatpur, Rajasthan. His mother and paternal aunt had been missing from the stampede site. The same night I met him, he called me just to share the good news that the two of them had reached home safely. There was so much relief in his voice.
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The hardest part on reporting on tragedies is that we lurch from one to the next with little time to process the incident or mourn the dead. As reporters, our primary job is to tell stories and chase deadlines. There is little time to reflect or heal.
ishita.mishra@thehindu.co.in
