When the Great Bhola Cyclone made landfall, it didn’t only crash against a coastline, killing half a million people, it also destroyed a fragile political system.
Usually, they managed a few carp or eels on their excursions. But as they trolled through the shallow latte-colored waters, both netmen felt a sharp pull. It was so strong that it almost crashed the two boats together.
With their now lifeless catch secured and stowed, Hai and his uncles turned homeward. The wind picked up, and rows of dark hammerhead clouds rolled over their heads. It was early afternoon, but the sky had turned the same shade of greenish-black as the sea that stretched to the horizon. On the radio, a new storm alert came through. The announcer repeated the signal, “Red 4, Red 4.” Nobody knew what it meant, and the announcer offered no explanation or guidance about what to do next. A second warning only said, “Big danger coming.” Hai’s family, like most everyone on the island, decided to ride out the storm.
Later that night, after everyone had lain down, Mohammad Hai jumped out of bed with a start. A tin sheet ripped off the roof, crashing down on the animal pen. He tuned his ears to the bleating outside; the animals sounded more scared than hurt. It was 10 pm. His bed hadn’t even had a chance to get warm yet, but if one tin sheet could blow off, more might follow. Hai threw on a shirt and ventured out into the darkness.
He sang a gentle song as he ran his hand over the family’s ox, but getting a terrified, thousand-pound beast to calmly follow orders while needles of rain stung her rump would take a true cow whisperer. Hai wasn’t that shepherd; he could barely get them to the trough. For half an hour, he slammed his shoulders into the cows’ butts, trying to push them into the barn. He slipped repeatedly on the muddy water that pooled under their immovable hooves.
Suddenly, they heard a wet slap against the side of the house—but this wasn’t the clap of a wooden plank or metal sheet. Hai stopped his fiddling and looked up, puzzled.My ears must be playing tricks on me. Outside, wind blew so strong that it dragged the cows sideways until the ropes around their necks became nooses. The waves pushed the silent floating beasts against the house with sickening thuds.
Lukewarm water poured over Hai’s feet. He backed up against the wall. The ceiling here was lower than on the main floor; if the water kept rising, there would be nowhere left to go. It was pitch black, but they could hear the water rushing in through the second-story window, blown in by the gales. They had to yell to hear one another over the cyclonic roar.
Every nerve in his body told Hai to turn back, but he resisted. Shielding Emdadul from the rain with his torso, Hai felt around in the darkness with his fingers for something solid to grasp. The brothers crawled up and out of the hole and were almost blown off the slick roof into the sea. Hai’s idea was that everyone could huddle here together, giving them a few more precious feet to escape the flood.
Hai knew that if he missed the jump he’d land in the fast-moving current and be swept out to the Bay of Bengal, an assured death, but he kept quiet about that part.Hai climbed back up through the hole, this time better prepared to brace himself for the wind that was so hard it carved ripples across his skin. It was impossible to stand up, so Hai dug his hands along the gaps in the wet tin as he worked his way across the rattling roof.
“I made it!” The waves punished the roof with their damning, unrelenting frequency. The water continued to rise. Hai called out to his mom. His cries turned from triumphant to desperate. He called out to God. “Go to a tree, uncle! Go to a tree, auntie!” Hai yelled from his roof. He paddled back to his own palm just before the cyclone’s southern eyewall smashed back into Manpura. Within seconds, the wind hit 125 miles per hour; gusts topped 150. Holding on to anything at those speeds was all but impossible. Humans and cobras jumped onto palms together, sharing the only safe place above the surface they could find.
Then Frank looked at the picture’s date. It was a week old. Instead of receiving the data from the brand-new Improved TRIOS Operational Satellite in advance, Frank learned about the Great Bhola Cyclone from news reports just like everyone else. Frank shook his head while he read about how three-quarters of the residents of a coastal island called Manpura had drowned. Frank knew that Manpura was just one of dozens of similar islands in the cyclone’s path.
As it turned out, Frank wasn’t the only one asking himself what went wrong. The return address on the as yet unopened letter to Frank read: “World Bank, Washington, DC.” It wasn’t often that the most powerful economic institution on the planet wrote to a meteorologist. After 36 hours, four flight connections, and some terrible sleep, Neil Frank emerged oddly refreshed from the InterContinental Hotel’s stately lobby into Dacca’s pleasant, 70-degree air. The concierge greeted the meteorologist and called over a white Vauxhall Victor thrumming at the taxi stand. His driver rushed to open the back door.
Problem was, all the scientific camaraderie in the world wasn’t getting Frank any closer to understanding where exactly the system broke down. If he was going to fix the storm-warning operation, he needed to know where the weaknesses were. The local papers blamed foreigners, claiming that the American and Indian weather services hadn’t shared information fast enough.
The general wore a khaki uniform with stars shining on his epaulets. The two men eyed each other as Frank fished out a notebook to record the details. The general led with a rhetorical question: How can Pakistan ensure it is never caught unaware again? If he’d only had the right information—the right guidance—he could have saved tens of thousands of lives. Maybe hundreds of thousands.
He then waved his hand cautiously at Frank’s notebook. Once Frank put down his pencil, the general leaned over the desk and spoke quietly. “You see, Neil, this cyclone solved about half a million of our problems.”In just a few weeks, the entire country was going to stand for an election, and the general argued that Bengali voters didn’t have the interests of the country at heart. The more Bengalis that perished, the better Pakistan would be in the long run.
Bhutto had been nagging Yahya all month about the election. He suggested they stuff a few hundred ballot boxes—or at least close a few hundred polling places in East Pakistan to give them an edge. Nobody would notice.
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