The terrorist bomb exploded in an orphanage run by a missionary group in the small Assamese village.
The missionaries and one or two children were killed outright and several more children were wounded, including one young girl, about eight years old.
People from the village requested medical help from a neighbouring town that had radio contact with the Indian army. Finally, an army doctor, a Tamilian and a Malayan' nurse arrived in a jeep with only their medical kits. They realized that the girl was the most critically injured. Without quick action she would die of shock and loss of blood.
A transfusion was imperative and a donor with a matching blood type was required. A quick test showed that neither of the army persons had the correct type but several of the uninjured orphans did.
The doctor and the nurse spoke some pidgin Assamese. Using that combination, together with much impromptu sign language, they tried to explain to their young, frightened audience that unless they could replace some of the girl's lost blood, she would certainly die. Then they asked if anyone would be willing to give blood !
Their request was met with wide-eyed silence. After several long moments, a small hand was slowly and waveringly raised.
"Oh, thank you," the nurse said in English. "What is your name?”
"Dev Kant", came the reply. Dev Kant was quickly laid on a pallet, his arm swabbed with alcohol and a needle inserted in his vein. Through this ordeal Dev Kant lay stiff and silent.
After a moment he let out a shuddering sob, quickly covering his face with his free hand.
"Is it hurting Dev Kant?" the doctor asked. Dev Kant shook his head but after a few moments another sob escaped and once more he tried to cover up his crying. Again the doctor asked him if the needle hurt and again Dev Kant shook his head. But now his occasional sobs gave way to a steady, silent crying, his eyes screwed tightly shut, his fist in his mouth to stifle his sobs.
The medical team was concerned. Something was obviously very wrong. At this point a nurse knowing Assamese arrived in another jeep to help. Seeing the little one's distress she spoke to him in Assamese, listened to his reply and answered him in a soothing voice.
After a moment the patient stopped crying and looked questioningly at the Assamese speaking nurse. When she nodded, a look of great relief spread over his face.
Glancing up, the nurse said quietly to the doctor, "He thought he was dying. He misunderstood you. He thought you had asked him to give all his blood so the little girl could live."
"But why would he be willing to do that?" asked the doctor. The Assamese speaking nurse repeated the question to the little boy who answered simply, "She's my friend."
The missionaries and one or two children were killed outright and several more children were wounded, including one young girl, about eight years old.
People from the village requested medical help from a neighbouring town that had radio contact with the Indian army. Finally, an army doctor, a Tamilian and a Malayan' nurse arrived in a jeep with only their medical kits. They realized that the girl was the most critically injured. Without quick action she would die of shock and loss of blood.
A transfusion was imperative and a donor with a matching blood type was required. A quick test showed that neither of the army persons had the correct type but several of the uninjured orphans did.
The doctor and the nurse spoke some pidgin Assamese. Using that combination, together with much impromptu sign language, they tried to explain to their young, frightened audience that unless they could replace some of the girl's lost blood, she would certainly die. Then they asked if anyone would be willing to give blood !
Their request was met with wide-eyed silence. After several long moments, a small hand was slowly and waveringly raised.
"Oh, thank you," the nurse said in English. "What is your name?”
"Dev Kant", came the reply. Dev Kant was quickly laid on a pallet, his arm swabbed with alcohol and a needle inserted in his vein. Through this ordeal Dev Kant lay stiff and silent.
After a moment he let out a shuddering sob, quickly covering his face with his free hand.
"Is it hurting Dev Kant?" the doctor asked. Dev Kant shook his head but after a few moments another sob escaped and once more he tried to cover up his crying. Again the doctor asked him if the needle hurt and again Dev Kant shook his head. But now his occasional sobs gave way to a steady, silent crying, his eyes screwed tightly shut, his fist in his mouth to stifle his sobs.
The medical team was concerned. Something was obviously very wrong. At this point a nurse knowing Assamese arrived in another jeep to help. Seeing the little one's distress she spoke to him in Assamese, listened to his reply and answered him in a soothing voice.
After a moment the patient stopped crying and looked questioningly at the Assamese speaking nurse. When she nodded, a look of great relief spread over his face.
Glancing up, the nurse said quietly to the doctor, "He thought he was dying. He misunderstood you. He thought you had asked him to give all his blood so the little girl could live."
"But why would he be willing to do that?" asked the doctor. The Assamese speaking nurse repeated the question to the little boy who answered simply, "She's my friend."
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