Voices

Vladimir Gagarin was on his way back by the Moscow-bound train after visiting Sergei Petrosky in Kyiv. Sergei was fighting cancer at the Kyiv City Oncology Center. It was the peak winter of December, several years after the Chornobyl disaster. 

“Chornobyl symbolizes the perilous trail of mankind. The cataclysm mocks at the pride of the modern man”- Vladimir sighed. There was enough truth in it. To that terror-filled night of 1986 April, his memories rattled away through the ruminating heart of Sergei.

The Chornobyl disaster took place in the wee hours of the morning. The Atomic Power Plant exploded. Technological failure, else, manual error. The exorbitant pressure set at Reactor No 4 gave way to the explosion. It was a total calamity by leaps and bounds in every sense, more ballistic than a volcanic eruption. The impelling radiation was devastating. It evacuated life around the place in no time. The radiation inflicted cancer and thousands perished. More than half a million people bore the aftermath. It was a silent parade to the graveyard. Today or tomorrow, it was an imminent peril. The waters of life never ran safe. 

The towns of Pripyat and Chornobyl became ghost towns over a wink. Beyond the towering inferno which continued for over a week, only the rustling leaves and the barking dogs answered the hues and cries of a man.

Vladimir recounted certain reports of that period. Aghast! Life would not be possible in these parts for the next 20000 years! That was the quantum of the radiation. What a tragedy! The aftermath was unimaginable.

He shrugged his shoulders at the thought of it. The waters were now murkier and poisonous in the twin towns of Pripyat and Chornobyl. Thriving populations of wolves, deer, lynx, beaver, eagles, boar, elk, and bears roamed about the place. Not a stir of human life. Only about seven scores, mostly the womenfolk lived there presently, taking care of their ancestral lands by risking their life.

It is now demarcated as an Exclusion Zone covering about 4000 Sq.km. Conducted tours are now allowed to Chornobyl but only for a day under strict vigil. En route at Dytyatky Military checkpoint from Kyiv, tourists are monitored for their radiation levels. Tourists are never supposed to touch anything around the place of Chornobyl. They are not even allowed to stand in the old control room of the power plant for more than a few minutes. 

The whole area is abandoned as it was on the day of disaster - in a manner appearing in a war tableau, without any human intervention. Broken toys, scattered books, dusty benches, worn-out charts, and pencil stubs around the nursery schools speak of shattered dreams. Chirping birds from the turrets of the mosses-grown buildings ruminate a note of plaint, one of forlorn and necromancy. The statue of Lenin is the sole object of singularity in that ‘Dikaya priroda’ (wild nature). He stands there beaten by seasons.

The train presently traversed the belt of Bryanskie Les Biosphere Nature Reserve. The frost of the season silvered the leaves. The winter had drawn a veil over the landscape. Vladimir’s memories too were shrouded by the passage of time.

For sure, he breathed a second life through the gift of Providence. Though he was a staff working at the Chornobyl Atomic Power Plant, luckily he was away in Moscow with his family at that momentous hour attending a marriage which saved his skin. A week earlier, he had left Pripyat. When the news was broken, he was preparing for his return trip which he never made.

For several years, Vladimir was a resident of Pripyat. With his wife Natasha and two children, he was leading an impressive family life in the area of Lenina Prospekt, near the Raduga Department Stores. The township was under the bloom. Those were the ‘70s. The Power Plant was right underway. The first Reactor was commissioned in 1977.

When the township was under expansion and in a flourishing phase, Sergei landed at Chornobyl from his native haunts of Kyiv in search of better prospects. It really paid off. Teachers were in demand. He became a teacher. Both Vladimir and Sergei lived in adjacent flats and this naturally led to their cementing a good comradeship.

They dined at Hotel Polissia. Loitered around the place. Played chess - Sergei often preferred the Queen’s Gambit. They met at the Palace of Culture Theatre during the weekends. Over a sip of Vodka, they discussed various subjects related to life and politics. 

Vladimir was a good connoisseur of music and Sergei, was an expert at playing Balalika. This instrument belonged to the lute family of musical instruments. That way, both of them had wonderful musical sessions late into the night on moonlit days down the apartment garden. Friends and their families would also join after their supper. Children loitered around. Altogether, it was a nice boisterous, and self-effacing group. A jocund company. Fluffy moments. It was such melodious strings for several years.

Chornobyl would be shivering too much during the period of Christmas. Snowflakes would be covering the trees and the ground. Yet, the festivity of the season never found an end. With carols and the irradiating Christmas trees and the bell-o-rings, along with Sergei’s fingers playing melodious notes, yes, those twinkling stars of Christmas always brought in the spirit of joy and the hues of the season.

For the midnight mass, they gathered at the St Elias Church. 

Strange as it may seem, after several years the church has only background radiation of 6 micro roentgen per hour compared to higher densities around Kyiv. Kyiv was 134 Km away from Chornobyl. This may be due to Providence ever guarding the church.

But, life proved one of improvidence for the people of the twin towns after that fatal explosion. Though people like Vladimir miraculously escaped by chance, Sergei and half a million of the population succumbed. They were thrown overboard. Eddies sucked them. Navigation was impossible. Survival was unpredictable. The medical world really stood perplexed being unable to find a solution for the afflicted patients.

People fled leaving behind their lifetime earnings. Life was dearer than anything else. In no time the area became a haunted one.

The deadly impact was not immediately known. Sergei stayed back for a brief period and eventually packed off to Kyiv. He was forbidden to carry anything other than his fleshy weight! Yet, he relieved a sigh. To be living on lease from howling winds was really a boon - he consoled.

The engine was once again back on the rails. It chuckled away smoothly among the values of life. Seasons did not hoodwink him for a brief period.

Sergei saw his compatriots wither away in lots - like a flickering lamp left to unguarded winds. He met some of them at the Kyiv hospital. Words were not enough to reassure them. More than a reiterative talk on forbearance, several doses of morphine, and a comforting pat were the need of the hour. 

From various accounts, he concluded: To live is anybody’s eternal quest, but, surmounting agonies compel him to prefer death to life.

How long can man sustain a life like the Christ on the Cross?

Life wheeled on without hitch. Friends were in search of each other but a proper trace was impossible. Nobody could return to Chornobyl and explore their friends. Perchance, if somebody could track down his old comrades after several years, it was like winning a jackpot! 

For Vladimir, Sergei’s whereabouts were quite unknown. Through some friends, at Kyiv, he had tried to unravel the mystery but to no avail. So many names by Sergei in the telephone directory! What to do? Those were the days of no internet and social groups.

One day, while walking around Rozhdestvensky Boulevard, he met a common friend, a medical representative, from whom Sergei emerged out of the clouds. Nevertheless, it was not pleasant news that awaited Vladimir. Sergei had fallen victim to cancer.

‘For how long?’ Vladimir was awestruck.

‘For a couple of years. Seems to be serious. I had recently met his father at the Kyiv hospital. I had an appointment with my doctor there. Sergei kept face against anybody visiting him. Imminent thoughts about death can drive anybody to a frenzied state and complete isolation. However, I stole a glimpse of him. He was sleeping. Not in a good shape. Under heavy sedatives’.

Those Pripyat years set a tremulous wind in Vladimir. He decided to travel down to Kyiv. 

‘I might or might not see him alive but I can’t betray my conscience’ - he soliloquized.

He met Sergei’s wife at the visitor’s lounge. She was inwardly cyclonic. At length, she gained her stance and began in whispers.

“He lives in truncation with the world. You know he is living on the edge. He knows about the imminent truth. That is the irony. Experience is the strongest influence in anybody’s life. He had witnessed so many comparable deaths in the past. Once upon a time, this hospital was flocked by the Chornobyl victims. 

Pain takes its toll. Palliative medicines do not work. Chemotherapy only drains out more flesh. I wish he suffered no more. God seems to be merciless in his case. Of late I contemplate more on the idea of mercy killing. Realities are realities. He has had enough. To die is an easy affair than it is otherwise, but it is not. Even the last atom of life will really fight a battle. For how long should a patient bear the agonies of life? Just hoping against hope and what else? Doctors would struggle to the last pulse. Hippocratic Oath compels them, but life will resist after a point. It is indeed a losing game. We often face a check mate.”

She stoically controlled her tears.

With a vexed mind, Vladimir reached the patient’s cabin. Sergei was under sedatives and a cloud of gadgets. His wife gently tapped him and slowly he turned his face towards her. At length, his sunken eyes discovered a shadowy figure beside her.

She whispered something into his ears. Tears rolled out. Without any utterance, Sergei turned his face away from his friend and clasped the pillow. He held it tight.

Vladimir could not bear the sight of his friend. The burns had started to come to the surface - he observed. Mouth, tongue, cheeks - the lesions had already grown to an alarming degree. It was coming off in layers as a white film. Color of the body…blue, red, gray turning into brown. Call the disease by any name, it was evident he was suffering from excruciating pain. After all, there was enough truth in the views expressed by his wife - Vladimir realized. 

Man is really getting caught in the cobweb of medical ethics and human considerations - he tossed. More often man is being pushed away from that ultimate step - saying unlawful and unethical. Misuse was also probable. Fine thoughts. Yet, the stark reality remained - when the doors really got shut behind a patient, why not for the sake of him? Should anybody wait until miracles happened? A pragmatic view.

He held his friend’s hand. Decades eclipsed. Eons melted. It was a silent communion.

My prostrations are unto thee-

Dear mother earth, I leave thy inn-

Herewith I return my keys,

Thanks for all the dales and thy kind lease.

The Past is a dateless diary,

And into blind alleys, it is a timeless sail.

It was a confluence of the realities of life and the tacit voices of a moribund man. Vladimir heard those voices grow louder and disappear over the vales.

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