I will never forget that day， Saturday， February 22， 1965. Never. Even today， after fifteen years I can still hear the desperate cries of the dying， the helpless shrieks of children and the roar of the wind tearing the last prayer from their lips， “Mary， mother of god， have mercy on us.”
I‘ll always remember the look in my mother’s terrified eyes， as she pulled me into her arms and rocked me like a child. “ Felicitas， daughter， blessed art the lord， who has given you back to me. Hail， Mary， full of grace， you have heard my prayers.” Then I did what I had wanted to do all those harrowing hours： I buried my face in my mother‘s shoulder and cried. My mother knelt and bathed my legs with oil， as was the custom in Jhunmeer， in Orissa when someone had been saved from death.