What does not kill you makes you stronger. This has been particularly true in my case.
I was 18 then, this was more than half a century ago. I was in Shimla for Dussehra holidays, the weather is exhilarating at this time of the year in the queen of hills. Walking on the Mall was a delight unparalleled. I set out to do so with my uncle and aunt, Vidyasagar and Lucy. We were all dressed up for no particular reason, perhaps, to present our best to the world around us. Like someone has wisely said, dress up like you’re already famous.
For me, this accident was a personal holocaust, and the silence about it was deafening. I needed reinforcement, perhaps somebody needed to tender an apology, somebody should have taken the responsibility for what had happened to me and was made to suffer. Silence of the loved ones added to my woes. I felt the cold anger–that’s silent too.
Mothers are manipulative in their own quintessential ways. Manipulation, especially when it comes to mothers, feels like love. My mother, Jagjit Kaur, a doctor of repute, with a sheepish smile introduced me to a young handsome man, Arun Bhagat, who had a class one job in the government and a bright future awaited him. At the age of 18, you are not thinking about marriage, and barely learning to be your own self. Before I knew what was happening, in the next 11 months, I was engaged and married and shifted to live my life with my Mr. Right!
This was a foregone conclusion in those days. A ‘fair and lovely’ convent educated girl, with British (Anglophilic, if I may say) upbringing was, more often than not, married to a prince charming, invariably a young class one officer in the government who promises to hold top positions in the future and play a critical role in ushering the destiny of the nation. It was autumn of 1966; Arun was posted in Manipur. And we were coming back to Delhi. From Jamshedpur, Arun decided to drive to Delhi, despite my opposition. I was in the family way and was not sure driving one and a half thousand kilometres was a good idea. Arun was on the wheels, I sat next to him in the front seat of a new Ambassador car that belonged to a friend of his. My mother-in-law and Arun’s two cousins who joined us at Patna were seated in the back seat.
Near Jhumri Telaiya, the car had a head on collision with a truck. Arun was hurt, I got the worst while the rest escaped with minor injuries. I gained consciousness in a kind of hospital many hours later when they were stitching my chin with an ordinary needle in the torch light held by a nurse. I passed out again. Next, I woke up in Agra Medical College, where I spent the first 12 hours of my three month long stay on a trolly stretcher.
I finally got medical treatment after 36 hours of the accident. My woes didn’t end here. Trying to align my hip bone to the head of the femur– the thigh bone, they chipped off the top of my hip bone. I developed jaundice. I was not alone in this trauma, there was a baby inside me. My father, Satya Pal Bhalla, also a doctor, remained a constant fixture by my side, day and night, for the next couple of months.
While lying immobile on the bed, cast in plaster, while my tummy became bigger with every passing day, I was grappling with many existential questions: Will I be able to walk? Will my child survive? What life entails for me now that I'm physically damaged? And answers to these questions would determine my future life.
I was transported to my parents’ home in Shimla after three months. My son, Aditya, was born, seven weeks earlier than scheduled, on a wintery day of January. He’s a survivor, a resolute child who experienced so much in the process of coming to this world. My world would have been different if he had not miraculously survived. With him survived my marriage to Arun. For I had made up my mind to pursue higher studies and work. When Aditya was born, my mother told me: “a child needs both parents.” We–me and my little brother–were glue to our parents’ marriage.
I had to learn to walk all over again. Things were limping back to normalcy. But I was acutely aware that a part of me is damaged, and it will never be the same again. I had lost a lot of weight, and a bit of self-esteem, my complexion pale, it was not a pretty image that I saw standing in front of the mirror.
Later, a doctor in AIIMS advised me not to put on weight, exercise regularly and walk a lot. If I did the needful, he told me, I’d be fine for the next 40 years. By then, he hoped there would be a better and lasting treatment for my damaged hip. He was right. I have had two hip replacements in the last 20 years.
Arun preferred not to talk about the accident, nor my mother-in-law. I know silence is a strong response. After the holocaust, a whole generation in Germany remained silent about what had happened. For me, this accident was a personal holocaust, and the silence about it was deafening. I needed reinforcement, perhaps somebody needed to tender an apology, somebody should have taken the responsibility for what had happened to me and was made to suffer. Silence of the loved ones added to my woes. I felt the cold anger–that’s silent too.
This was the summer of 1968. An explosive summer in world history, known for the combustion of rebellious spirit, youth against authoritarianism, a lot happened be it Vietnam's Tet Offensive (one of the largest military campaigns of the Vietnam War), the assassination of Martin Luther King, to Black power and women's liberation, while in Europe, French students nearly toppled De Gaulle, in Mexico, 500 students were massacred before the Summer Olympics, Prague uprising, to mention a few. I too had a radical experience in a beautiful way. Perhaps, in the same spirit of an underdog finding an utterance. I’m of that rebellious generation. I rebelled against afflictions and pieced my life together. Within a year, Aditya was doing well, healthy and normal now.
One summer evening in Shimla, I was in Cecil Hotel (now Oberoi Cecil). Hundreds of beautiful women had gathered for a reason. In that glittering gathering, they picked me for the title of Miss Shimla. When I was being accorded the title, a demurrer rose from the audience, “but she's married.” I was given a cup, instead. But before that happened, the news went around that I was crowned Miss Shimla. A leading English daily in Delhi, carried a picture of me, declaring me: Miss Shimla. My dear friends, Shama and Nikhil, also a cop like Arun, saw the news clipping. Soon in a similar event, I was crowned Miss Punjab—just to emphasise that Miss Shimla was not a mistake after all.
A few weeks later, I walk in with a upright gait exuberating confidence in the Police Mess in Delhi, when Shyama and Nikhil greet my arrival saying, “here comes Miss Shimla.” A rousing welcome ensued. The pieces of my broken spirit world came back together. I returned to the beauty–not mere earthly–I have always been. The silence about what had happened still haunts me.
Indeed the title of the article stands true in all aspects basis the experiences you've narrated here. And this is very inspiring too!