PEACE AT LAST IN PARADISE

“An earthquake,” screamed the woman at the counter. “Look. The tower is crumbling,” shouted a man and my eyes followed his outstretched hands. In front of us the top half of the Northern Tower was falling as if it was just a house of cards being smashed by an angry child. “Run,” boomed a voice from the back of the café. I carried the child in my left arm and grabbed the woman's left arm with my right hand and took to our heels. We joined the mass of shrieking, screaming, wailing humanity that ran as fast as they could ahead of a rapidly advancing cloud of murky dust and smoke. Even as I ran for my dear life and those of the two strangers for whose life I had unconsciously and spontaneously assumed full responsibility, I was conscious of the deafening noise and vibration of a low-flying plane. What followed was a horrendous peal of thunder followed by the crackling noise of disintegrating concrete and the strain of collapsing steel columns. I stopped on my track and looked back. Just long enough to see the momentary vision of a celestial mansion of the Hindu and Buddhist mythology wafting on a cloud of steam and fire. “Oh, my goodness me,” I yelled as I realized that the floating mass was no divine Vimana. It was the upper third of the Tower crashing down like a gigantic sledgehammer on its lower floors. Dust, smoke and fire engulfed what was once the cynosure of New York's posh and fabulous financial quarter. We ran with the rest of the masses until we emerged from the wall of white dust, which had given all of us a sinister ghostly and ghoulish appearance. If skin-color was designed to distinguish the humankind racially, ethnically and geographically, adversity and catastrophe leveled humanity to a common denominator. The coating of dust and debris did it to thousands who managed to run to safety. Even as we sighed an audible sigh of collective relief, I was deeply moved by the reassuring trot of the courageous firefighters and paramedics who, laden with heavy equipment of their profession, ran into the heart of danger. Theirs, I said to myself, was an ill-fated mission and I wished them safety. Instinctively, I hugged the child and the woman warmly and enjoyed for a while the unparalleled joy of being alive. With her Kabuki-painted face she kissed me on my cheek and that tender gesture was more than a fervent “Thank you.” Recalling that moment ever since at times of despair has been an antidote against oncoming depression. Wasn't I surprised to see Srinath standing at the crossroad and reassuring the startled children and women that they had reached safety. “Srinath, how are you here?” I asked him. I met the young Sri Lankan engineer at the George's party and gathered a lot of information about his distinguished father who served both the British regime and the first three administrations of independent Sri Lanka with distinction. “I was in my office on the 80th floor and heard the rumbling. Looking out of my office, I saw the other Tower burning. When others in our building started to run down, my colleagues and I decided to follow them down the stairs. I was here before the dust could paint me a ghost.” He was not simply relieved. He was jubilant. I became conscious of what brought me to Twin Towers that morning. I blew the ashen dust of the cellular phone and dialed the number of airlines office. All that greeted me was the prolonged shrill note of a telephone no longer in service. I had the cellular phone number of the manager of the Sales Agency. My heart missed a couple of beats as several rings went unanswered. At the end of what appeared a century, I was relieved to hear his voice. “Dr. de Lanerolle, I am trying to get you on your cell the whole of the last half-hour,” he said with hardly any excitement. “I was running for my dear life, or, to be more accurate, for mine own and those of two strangers. Don't you know what's going on here?” “No, Doctor. I got up with a splitting headache and a spell of dizziness. So I called my secretary to post a notice and close the office. I am canceling the day's appointments and that's why I was trying to reach you.” “What a lucky bloke,” I said to myself and hoped that the charming young secretary was equally lucky. I told him briefly of the tragedy of the morning and added, “Angels must be hovering over your head.”. I had no idea how the Twin Towers crashed one after other. It must be an earthquake, I told myself and explained it so to the child and his guardian. She received my explanation with loud wailing. Saying something in Tamil, which I had no way to understand, she fell on her knees and grabbed my feet. She was beseeching me to do something. But nothing sounded coherent. A Police Officer came to my rescue and raised her. He led us to a lounge of a nearby office building. The child cried louder. All I could do was to plead with her to tell me what I could do to help her. At length, her hysteria dwindled to sobbing and she found words to tell me what it was. “My sister went to her office at 8:00 leaving me and her son in the café. The little one wanted a hamburger and the café would not serve hamburgers until after eight-thirty. She was to come at ten to take us to show the Tower. Where can she be now? Can you find her for me please? Please, sir.” She switched on to Tamil and I didn't understand a word. But the four year old learned enough to start crying for his mother. More people were crowding into the lounge and I began asking them for information. A kindly young man was definitely helpful. He had telephoned home to tell his wife what he had seen at first hand. But she knew more. Her “Good Morning” show had been interrupted and every network had shown over and over again the collapse of the Towers. In fact, the TV had shown how an American Airlines plane plowed into the Southern Tower, confirming that the unprecedented catastrophe was the dastardly act of terrorists. The death toll was estimated to be in the region of seven thousand, at least four hundred of them being the brave and selfless firefighters and paramedics. My immediate response to this information was to call Uncle Andrew and Aunty Seeta and assure them of my safety. How relieved they were to hear my voice. “Are you O.K.?” they asked me repeatedly. They were glued to the TV and trying to understand how such an attack was ever possible. I told them of my self-imposed mission of finding the mother of a four-year old child who wouldn't let me put him down from my arm. I was myself dazed and could not think swiftly. I had no idea where to begin. But not so was Rudolph Giuliani, the Mayor of New York. The reputed attorney-at-law had once again risen to the occasion. Even as we were recovering from the shock, he had established an operations center and was directing the rescue of trapped persons and the removal and treatment of the injured. I approached an officer of his outfit and he assured me that the highest priority was being given to helping concerned relatives. He appealed for patience. He gave me an emergency number to call. I thought it best to take my frightened wards to a place where their emotional needs could best be served. I couldn't think of anyone who could do it better than Aunty Seeta and Uncle Andrew. To my relief, they both agreed to care for them: “Let us do all we can,” they said even though all we know of them at the moment was that they spoke Tamil.