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By Rajashri Dasgupta The very residents of the Panchanantala slum in Kolkata who are considered a nuisance by the occupants of the high-rises that surround them, who are periodically threatened with eviction and turned away even in emergencies by the specialty AMRI Hospital next door to them, risked their lives to rescue patients from the burning hospital
 It was business as usual in Panchanantala slum in South Kolkata that afternoon. Men were at work, some hawking fruit or sawing pieces of wood, others grabbing a siesta before returning to work. Women busied themselves washing utensils or clothes in front of their home while children shouted with laughter, disappearing through the maze of crowded lanes crisscrossing the rows of shanties. Teenage girls dressed in printed gowns went about their daily chores, barely casting a glance at strangers like us wading through the garbage and puddles of water, a little lost and unsure. The routine ordinariness in Panchanantala concealed the fact that less than 34 hours ago, these very same people had sprung into action to create history of sorts: men, women and children had emerged from their shanties and rushed, spontaneously risking their own lives, to rescue patients trapped in a high-rise hospital building engulfed in poisonous smoke. December 9 dawned ominously upon the city with more than 90 people suffocating to death in a hi-tech hospital, the worst tragedy in a medical institution in the country. When in the wee hours of Friday, two women in the slum smelt smoke and were alerted by the screams for help from patients of the hospital overlooking the slum, they immediately raised an alarm. It was a little past 2 am, but within minutes young boys and middle-aged men from the slum rushed to the gates of the Advanced Medical Research Institute (AMRI), a well-known hospital in south Calcutta, to help rescue operations, only to be rudely turned away by the hospital security guards who bolted the gates to prevent their entry. “We implored the guards that there was a fire and patients were crying for help. They said they were taking care of the situation and demanded that we leave,” said Bappa Das, a class X student in the local school.  Undeterred, the men cut through the barbed wire and made a hole with shovels in the 10-feet-high brick wall surrounding the hospital and separating it from the slum. Even as a blanket of thick smoke engulfed the annex of AMRI where serious patients in special care units and orthopaedic cases were housed, the men constructed crude bamboo ladders to climb the high walls and women made ropes of their saris and dupattas to aid the effort. Two hours later, at 4 am, the fire brigade arrived with manual ladders and no breathing apparatus. But even before the fire brigade and the police could get into the act of rescuing patients from the top floors of the hospital, the slumdwellers had scampered to the top floor on bamboo poles, water pipes and wooden ladders rushed from the slum, and braved the blinding smoke to drag out patients who were gasping for breath. In the din and chaos of darkness enveloped by the poisonous gas and screaming patients, groups of slumdwellers joined by the fire brigade, police and some hospital staff realised the worst-affected were the patients on the fourth floor, surrounded by monitors and drips and innumerable medical equipment. “We could see all around us the evidence of patients who had dragged themselves to the windows and shattered the glass panes in order to breathe and escape death, but had failed,” said Bappa. Many patients survived the trauma and were rushed to nearby hospitals, others were not so lucky. Among the dead were two young nurses from Kerala who made valiant efforts to save their patients while two young boys of Panchanantala’s rescue team are still battling for life in a city hospital. Senior officials both from the police and fire departments have acknowledged the role played by the locals in saving the lives of many AMRI patients. “They were with us throughout the day, evacuating the patients and reaching the hospital gates long before us,” admitted a senior police officer of the local Lake thana. “They were tremendous. Simply tremendous.” It was the local slumdwellers, against whom the high walls of the hospital were built, who proved to be the saviours, the Good Samaritans, that fateful morning. Gurupada Mandal, a mason, was watching Vidya Balan gyrating in The Dirty Picture promos on TV when we met him on Saturday afternoon sitting on a bed that covered the matchbox-sized room. Hiding his annoyance at being disturbed, he did not understand why he should be interviewed for what he thought was an ordinary act. “My wife woke me up and urged me to go and help patients who were screaming for help. Without thinking I ran and called my neighbour. Together, we took a shovel to break a hole in the wall. Since I am a mason I have bamboo poles and with some rope we tied them together and made a ladder to climb the hospital building,” said Mandal in a matter-of-fact tone. Raju Bhandari and his friends were among the first to climb up the back of the hospital building on the bamboo scaffolding that was left standing for hospital renovation. They saw patients on the second and third floor banging desperately on the window panes to shatter the glass. Fourteen-year-old Akhoy Lal, a school dropout, said it was tough bringing those who could not move or walk down the makeshift ladder. “Many patients were already dead by the time they were dragged out,” said Akhoy who moved away embarrassed when others pointed to the injury he had suffered on his left shoulder. Reaching beyond the second floor on the bamboo scaffolding or makeshift ladders proved impossible. Said Biswajit Chakraborty, an unemployed youth, “They (patients on the top floor) were screaming for us but we were helpless and could not help those who were seriously sick.” Bappa Das heard patients screaming through the dark smoke and with others dragged patients out of the hospital wards. “I don’t know whether they were dead or alive, we could not make out. We just moved swiftly either dragging or wheeling the patients out. We did not think whether they were our relatives, mother or brother. They were screaming in fear, appealing to us for help. Without thinking, all of us in the basti rushed to help them.” India’s National Building Code has more than 80 pages on fire safety. It also recommends a technology that prevents fumes from travelling through the AC ducts as happened in the recent fire. At AMRI Hospital, the fire actually broke out in the basement, but the deadly smoke travelled through the AC ducts to the floors above. The basement that was meant for parking cars was being used as a storage facility in alleged violation of guidelines. Fire officials told the media that they had sent notices to the hospital for using the basement to store housekeeping equipment and materials to power back-up units, converting it into a veritable storehouse of inflammable, combustible material. Moreover, the annex where the fire broke out does not have a ramp to evacuate patients in case of emergency and the building is built on a strip of land squeezed between the Panchanantala slum and another hospital building closely surrounded by a wall that prevents free access for the fire brigade. Despite the information about the lapses and the lack of preparedness on the part of AMRI to fight fire, the fire and emergency department issued a no-objection certificate on August 29. Following the tragedy, people have questioned the safety of public places like cinema halls, shopping malls, other hospitals (both private and state) and educational institutions. Citizens groups have taken to the streets to express their condolence to the bereaved families and demand accountability about safety in public spaces. ‘Who is responsible?’ read one poster. ‘Why did they have to die?’ and ‘Never again’ were some of the banners displayed in the silent marches. In a swift move, the Chief Minister of Bengal, Mamata Banerjee, has ordered both a judicial and police probe into the AMRI tragedy, canceled the license of the AMRI annex and had the six hospital directors arrested. Ironically, it was the rescue operations that provided the residents of Panchanantala their first visit inside the AMRI. Though the hospital is adjacent to the basti, the slumdwellers have never had any access to healthcare services in its facilities and complained bitterly about the behaviour of the medical staff and the lack of medical treatment even during an emergency. “We were so hopeful when the hospital came up. We thought we would also benefit from it and avail of healthcare,” said Rupasri Sarkar, a domestic maid. “We were quickly disappointed.” Almost every slumdweller told us how they faced humiliation when they sought medical help in AMRI. “They would chase us away like dogs and demand a huge amount of money before any treatment could even begin,” said an agitated Rupasri. “Can we ever afford this? They tell us to go to the government hospitals.” Soma Tati’s husband who saved three lives in the fire was turned away three months ago when he pleaded with the doctor for help when he suffered severe chest pain. Said Jhuma Chakraborty, a young girl training in a beautician course, “For any treatment even in an emergency we have to go to the government hospitals far away.” “We have never been disappointed, the government hospitals are our saviour, not AMRI next door,” said Soma Tati. If Panchanantala residents found themselves unwelcome within AMRI Hospital premises, over the years, the 6,000 residents have been threatened with eviction many times as they have grabbed railway property to build their shanties. They are considered a ‘nuisance’ by residents in the surrounding high-rise buildings, viewed with suspicion and irritation for the stink and garbage and for the mikes blaring Hindi film songs throughout the year. “Except for domestic help, what else does the slum provide us?” asks one such resident of a high-rise. Till a few years ago, the slum was notorious for its gang warfare, liquor and gambling dens. But as the slumdwellers say, “That is our past...We now live differently, with dignity.” How is it that the very citizens who are maligned and rejected by the state, the urban middle class, feared as a threat to law and order in the city, who receive no benefit but are instead humiliated by a private healthcare facility next door to them, show such exemplary courage and save the lives of complete strangers at risk to their own? And then go about their daily life without the smug heroism of the middle class? Said sociologist Pradip Bose, formerly of the Centre for Social Studies, “People are aware that the administration does not function, therefore they take the situation in their own hands -- and act.” This has been the experience of victims of train accidents, for example, when villagers have rushed to the aid of passengers hours before help from the administration has reached. According to Suren Munshi, sociologist, Indian Institute of Management-Calcutta, “it’s their sense of community, their sense of sharing… their lives are not atomised like ours. They didn’t stop to ask who is seeking help, they simply responded to the cry for help.” It is this human response that has created history in the city. Infochange News & Features, December 2011 |
