No One Had a Tongue to Speak is a riveting account of a dam burst that destroyed Morbi, an erstwhile princely town in Gujarat — also called the Paris of Saurashtra. The canvas, though small, presents a big picture: of the victims’ tribulations and the tenacity of those involved in relief and rescue — as also of the hubris institutionalised in the dirigiste Establishment. This is despite the fact that most politicians and officials described in the book are shown in a good light; they committed themselves fully to rehabilitating the town.
Instead of dense prose, the authors use an easy-flowing narrative to delineate the history, geography, folklore and life at Morbi and Maliya – a nearby town that was also ravaged – in 1979. The slower rhythms of provincial existence become live. Ghost Paan owner Pratapbhai Adroja strides “jauntily down Morbi’s wide commercial avenues” after a busy day. Khatijaben, married into the Valera clan of royal court singers, is busy with her daily chores at her bungalow. In the absence of royal patronage, the bungalow “had begun to show the first signs of disrepair”. Bhagwanji Patel is working at the office of his Sri Lilapar Potteries “which crafted roofing tiles out of the Machhu River Valley’s red soil”. Then there is Kanubhai Kubavat, a teacher who trades “his pants for a dhoti” to double as temple priest. Mayor Ratilal Desai is absorbed in official documents. Gangaram Tapu is serving his sentence — he had killed one of the five Miyanas (a Muslim community) who had attacked him. Tapu would later save dozens of lives at the peak of the flood.
Far away from the small-town bustle are the enthusiasms and forces that would change Morbi – and India – forever. Jawaharlal Nehru’s fascination for the top-down, statist model of development, which deified dams (“temples of modern India”), brooked no dissent, doubts or resistance. There is nothing wrong with dams per se; the problem begins, as the book portrays, when the concept is applied doctrinally, mechanically and callously. Utpal Sandesara and Tom Wooten, however, refrain from commenting on big dams; they stick to reportage. So, they write, “In his [chief minister Babubhai Patel’s] last years of public service, the man who inspired thousands to rebuild Morbi after of the history’s deadliest dam failures became a vociferous advocate for one of history’s most controversial dams [Sardar Sarovar dam].”
Machhu dam-I was made decades earlier, but the need for another dam, near Morbi, persisted. In 1955, the local government submitted its plan to the Central Water and Power Commission (CWPC), which oversaw and approved all water infrastructure projects. “The CWPC’s response contained several major criticisms.”
For years, the CWPC remained critical of many aspects of the project. State engineers, goaded by local politicians, almost bypassed the stringent norms set by the commission. However, the locals didn’t even know of the construction of a temple of modern India. “For most, news of the dam came as a shock. Government surveyors, dressed in fancy western clothes and laden with bulky equipment, appeared in the fields surrounding the village… When asked, the surveyors informed the people that a dam had been planned, and that the government would relocate their villages within a few years.”
State arrogance relied on the ultimate collectivist justification — sacrifice of the citizen for the common good. So, project engineer “Vasoya had stressed to the villagers that their sacrifice would do a great deal of good for many people in the area”. Later, he “argued vociferously with his superiors for more generous compensation on their behalf. But the money was not forthcoming”. As an affected person said: “The government decides, and the government builds. What would we have to say in these matters?”
It was not that the powers that be were heartless. When the dam burst on August 11, 1979, killing thousands (estimates vary from a few thousands to 25,000) and uprooting many more, politicians and bureaucrats worked ceaselessly to bring Morbi back on track. The chief minister (of the Janata Party), who had stationed himself at the ravaged town, “pressed forward with an indomitable determination to see Morbi rise up from the rubble of the Morbi dam disaster”.
But when it came to apportioning culpability, the state government and the engineering community stonewalled the inquiry commission that was set up under a state high court judge. The state government, under Patel’s successor, Madhavsinh Solanki (of the Congress), ensured that the panel did not proceed and wound it up on the ground that it was not functioning properly. Sadly, the Supreme Court countenanced the Solanki regime’s decision.
The authors graduated from Harvard. Utpal Sandesara’s “mother’s experience as a Machhu flood survivor led to his interest in the research that became this book”. Their narration, relying on first-hand accounts and other empirical evidence, is racy. But they falter in the last few chapters; they continue to tell human interest stories, while one would expect a more detailed and uninterrupted analysis of the state’s failings and arrogance.
If justice is truth in action, as Benjamin Disraeli said, then the people of Morbi got neither. The culprits were not even named, let alone brought to justice; and the victims didn’t even come to know the truth. But they have some solace now: their story is no longer “untold”.
NO ONE HAD A TONGUE TO SPEAK
The Untold Story of One of History’s Deadliest Floods
Utpal Sandesara and Tom Wooten
Rain Tree (An imprint of Rupa Publications)
