PORTRAIT OF PAIN: Despair spread like a shroud as the villagers watched; (above) the injured pile up in front of the AS4 and AS5 coaches

When you've covered the range of mishaps, and distress, that I have, you learn to become detached. It brings perspective. But the insight comes from being a part of an event. I realised this on September 9 while coming to Delhi from Howrah on the Rajdhani Express.

It was past 10 p.m. After dinner, my four co-passengers and I had begun to doze off, the men joking how they'd disturb me while disembarking at Allahabad at around 2 a.m. It was an unkept promise. They didn't get off at Allahabad. It was at Rafigunj. As for the disturbance, it began with a bone-crunching rattle, and that noise ... that terrible noise.

Had the train derailed, I wondered. In the next instant, we went into a reckless tumble, and I knew. Thoughtless, shattering chaos wracked our coach (AS4)-I was plucked off my berth, the luggage flew berserkly and the lights went out. Luckily, the emergency lights came on, the only coach where they did, as we found out later. It took me a couple of moments to get my bearings-I was sprawled on a window (the coach lay on its side) pinned down by a suitcase. The gasp of silence was promptly filled with screams, blood, the cry of a child, the reassurance of an attendant, "Himmat rakhiye, hum sab zinda hain (Take heart, we are all alive)."

JOURNEY'S END: The injured await the arrival of the rescue train; (below) a pregnant woman lies on the grass as a villager keeps watch

Then came the first sane thought-where's my camera? Incredibly, the camera bag swung merrily from the edge of a seat. I extricated myself, picked up the bag, helped a stranded woman and her two children, and then stepped out through the door. It was around 11.15 p.m. I saw the night sky, felt the cool air and realised I was breathing. I was alive.

Shortly afterwards I clicked my first picture: a woman coming out of a compartment. Usually I'm well stocked with rolls of film for any exigency. That day, I had only two rolls; I hadn't been looking to an evening of mishap. In the next coach (AS5), people had shaken off the shock and had begun rescue work, breaking windows, pulling out people. I too became a part of a human chain. Half an hour later, we saw a string of lights at a distance-villagers, help, hope were on their way. At 12-12.30 a.m. the local police trooped in in three jeeps and soon after, military recruits.

Anxiety, however, had begun to catch up. Where were the railway officials? We wanted water, food, first aid ... when would they come? At 2.30 a.m. or so came the first train from Gaya for technical assistance, and soon after, vidhayakji, the local MLA, along with a doctor. We had been so busy with our own succour work that till around 5 a.m. we didn't hear the silence screaming at us from the direction of coaches A1 and A2. We clambered over the jumbled mass of coaches, and saw death-in a gory mix, blood and tomato ketchup had smothered the dead pantry car attendants.

As the day filtered and finally settled in, tragedy spread out and filled the grounds-a man resolutely held the hand of his dead wife, a pregnant woman lay sprawled on the grass, the injured waited for the new train. I realised I was focusing not on the train but survivors ... because I was one of them. We also had our first tea and rusk, provided again by the villagers. We finally left at 11 a.m. for Dehri-on-Sone but suffered further ignominy-we had to carry our luggage, and had no food or water till we reached Mughalsarai. From there we came to Delhi, safe but scarred.

-as told to Riju D. Mehta