The Winter the Earth Trembled

Our member Ms M. Paul was born in Bhagalpur, Bihar. Although the devastating earthquake of 1934 occurred before her birth, its memory lived on through family lore. Over the years, she pieced together the event from vivid accounts shared by elders in her family.

I was born into a joint family in Bhagalpur, Bihar. The house I grew up in was massive, with large terraces, gardens, and courtyards. It was inhabited not only by people but also by pets—animals and birds—and contained libraries full of books, journals, and magazines.
As a child, I was intensely curious and often shadowed my elders. I would hear them speak of a devastating earthquake which struck one winter afternoon, in 1934, tearing through several towns and cities across the country. That afternoon, my eldest sister, then just two years old, was asleep in our bedroom. As my mother entered the room, there was a loud noise. At first, she assumed it was the municipal garbage truck that passed by daily at that hour. Moments later, she realised with horror that the ground was shaking.
Picking up my sister, my mother ran outside to find the house engulfed in a thick cloud of dust. An aunt and uncle lived in an adjoining room and were arguing loudly, completely unaware of nature’s fury. My mother’s frantic knocks went unanswered, so she burst in and shouted that there was an earthquake.
They rushed towards the staircase, which was swaying so violently that nothing could be clearly seen. Somehow, they managed to make their way downstairs. The only exit from the house was through a medicine dispensary, which lay in complete disarray; medicines were strewn across the floor and there were shards of glass everywhere. With no alternative, they walked through it, cutting their feet and bleeding, before finally stepping out onto the road.
My mother stood outside with my aunt, uncle, and their two children. They were covered head to toe in white cement dust. Gradually, the rest of the family emerged from the crumbling house, bruised and bleeding. Ironically, it was impossible to enter the dispensary to retrieve medicines. Though it belonged to our family, nature seemed to have barred its owners from it that day. The house continued to disintegrate as cement cornices and awnings crashed down noisily. The family stood helplessly, watching their home succumb to nature’s wrath. Eventually, the tremors subsided. The house was uninhabitable, and everyone wondered whether they would be forced to live on the streets through winter. Slowly, they re-entered and assessed the damage. With effort and repair, it seemed possible to return, though extensive work was needed. Remarkably, the thakurghor (prayer room) remained untouched. Gopal and his consort Radha sat serenely on their throne, adorned in their finery.
A field in front of the house belonged to the family, and it was decided to build temporary huts there. Mud houses soon appeared, with straw roofs and a brick boundary wall. Over time, a kitchen garden took shape, and flower patches added colour to their lives.
Those days were filled with fear for my mother. The jungle was close by, and at night she carefully checked the bedding for snakes and scorpions.
My father was in Kolkata on business when the earthquake struck. Railway tracks were badly damaged, and it took several days for him to return. When he finally arrived, he found the family living in temporary shelters. He walked in to see Pishima, one of my aunts, boiling milk for the entire household. The milkman would deliver galloons which would be poured into a large cauldron. It would be diluted with an equal amount of water, and boiled thoroughly to kill bacteria before being reduced to its original quantity—a task requiring full attention.
As my father entered, he saw the family gathered around Pishima, waiting for their share of milk. Only his wife and two-year-old daughter were missing. He asked if everyone was safe. Distracted, Pishima merely grunted. He asked again, stressing on the word “everyone,” and again received only a grunt. Alarmed, he feared the worst, until he finally spotted us and breathed a sigh of relief.
Aftershocks continued for days. The family lived in the huts for two-and-a-half years while repairs were underway. My grandmother survived the earthquake, and the thakurghor remained functional. My sister would go there to play with Gopal, flinging Radha aside and cradling him in her arms. Amused, my grandmother began calling her Meerabai.
Sadly, my grandmother, Hemangini Dasi, did not live to see the family home fully restored. She passed away in one of the huts, leaving behind six married sons and many grandchildren. In time, the family returned to their rightful home, carrying with them the memory of that devastating day, slowly learning to leave its trauma behind.

(as narrated to Support Elders by our member)