Dabwali fire tragedy, 30 years later: Survivors’ only wish—never let this happen again

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Iqbal Singh ‘Shant’ often looks at his hands before he turns his gaze upwards and thanks the Almighty. The fingers are curled, the skin marked forever, and the palms carry the memory of fire. They cannot grip like normal hands, yet they allow him to type in three languages, drive a car, ride a two-wheeler and work as a journalist.

For Iqbal, his hands and the burns on his back and neck are proof that fate had other things in store for him on a day when hundreds did not return home.

Nearly 30 years after the Dabwali fire tragedy of December 23, 1995 — one of the deadliest fire disasters in India — Iqbal’s scars are a daily reminder of the events of the day. When he meets someone who has lost both hands, he becomes emotional, because he feels he was luckier than many others who perished in the flames or survived with far more severe injuries.

Iqbal was 19 when he accompanied his father, freedom fighter Gurdev Singh ‘Shant’, to a school function at the DAV School campus in Mandi Dabwali in Sirsa district. They were attending as special guests.

Iqbal remembers every minute detail. He was seated in the first row, second or third chair, while his father sat beside the main guests. A lamp-lighting ceremony had just taken place, and Iqbal noticed a burning matchstick lying carelessly near the stage. Instinctively, he got up, stepped forward and extinguished it.

He had barely taken his seat when screams erupted from the entrance gate of the pandal. Within seconds, someone shouted that a fire had broken out. Panic followed like a wave.

Iqbal first ran out to save himself. But as soon as he reached the open ground outside, the thought struck him: where is his father? Without hesitation, he turned around and sprinted back into the burning pandal.

The stage covering had already caught fire. People were pushing, stumbling, falling. Children were crying. Smoke choked the air. Iqbal somehow located his father and began pulling him towards the exit. Just as they neared the main gate, a huge burning cloth sheet from the shamiana collapsed upon them.

Iqbal instinctively put both hands over his head and bent low, trying to shield his father. Flames gripped his arms and back within seconds. His father was completely engulfed. Iqbal staggered out, burning, choking, desperate for air. His father never made it. That day, Iqbal lost more than skin; he lost the man who had taught him to be fearless.

Dabwali still remembers December 23 as its darkest day. The winter sky that afternoon carried no warning. Yet, at 1.40 pm, a suspected short-circuit triggered a blaze inside the tightly packed tent where the school function was underway.

Fuelled by plastic, cloth and wooden frames, the fire shot upward and outward.

By 1.47 pm, just seven minutes later, 442 people were dead. Among them were 173 children, including 26 toddlers aged three or younger. The number represented nearly 2 per cent of the town’s population at the time.

The fire was so sudden and fast that people didn’t get time to stand, let alone run. Many died holding hands. Some families were wiped out entirely. Bodies lay charred beyond recognition; 13 children remained unidentified. The nation was shaken.

Even Prime Minister PV Narasimha Rao visited the town to pay tribute.

Nearly 196 people survived with burns of varying degrees. Some gradually healed. Some lived the rest of their lives with permanent disabilities. And some, like Iqbal, learnt to rebuild life slowly, painfully, and bravely.

Another such survivor is Vinod Bansal, now secretary of the Dabwali Fire Victims Memorial Trust. His face, hands and body were severely burnt. Even today, when people look at the scars and ask, “What happened to you?” — it pulls him back to that afternoon.

Bansal helps maintain the memorial built at the site of the tragedy, a library for children and a wall engraved with the names of all those who died. He says three decades after the fire tragedy, its memory is still alive.

For him, the tragedy carries a larger lesson. “The fire was an accident, yes,” he says, “but also the result of negligence. And we are still repeating the same mistakes over and over again.”

Every time Vinod sees a news report of a fire incident, whether at the Goa nightclub recently or the blaze at a coaching centre in Kota where children had to jump off the building to save themselves, his wounds reopen. Wires tangled in electricity poles, unsafe wiring inside homes and shops, inflammable material stored carelessly, he sees danger everywhere.

“We treat rules as suggestions,” he says, “until the day the flouted rules take revenge.”