Five Past Midnight in Bhopal (47 page)

“Last night was Sunday,” a friend explained to her, “they died while they were celebrating.”

Other surprises awaited those dealing with the burial of the dead. Under pressure from the gases produced by the chemical
decomposition of MIC, the corpses were subject to strange twitches. Here an arm stretched itself out, there a leg. Some bodies
buried near the surface of the earth seemed to want to stand up. Terrified by these extraordinary “resurrections,” some people
fainted, others shouted at the ghostly apparitions and yet others ran away screaming. Abdul Hamid was struck dumb; his cemetery
had become a theater of ghosts.

Bhopal’s most celebrated restaurateur had been obliged to hand over control of his ovens to his two sons and two sisters while
he arranged for the Hindu funeral pyres. His associates from the Vishram Ghat Trust, the group in charge of cremations, were
overwhelmed by the magnitude of the task. The Hindu religion ordains that, with the exception of children, the bodies of the
deceased must be burned. For that they needed firewood, but how were they to find enough for thousands of corpses? Shyam Babu
worked a miracle. In the space of a few hours, he managed to fill fifteen trucks with enough wood to incinerate several hundred
bodies. Cloth-makers brought him miles of linen with which to make shrouds.

While he prepared to set light to the first pyre, two envoys of the mufti appeared. They had come to make certain that no
Muslims would be burned by mistake. It was almost impossible to confuse men from the two communities; the followers of Allah
wore a characteristic goatee, amulets around their necks, and bore marks left on their foreheads by their repeated prostrations.
Not to mention the fact that they were circumcised. Unless they were veiled with their burkahs, women were more difficult
to distinguish. Nevertheless, the mufti’s envoys left reassured. Shyam Babu was just about to plunge his torch into the pile
of wood when someone grabbed his arm. The student Piyush Chawla had spotted a little gold cross around one young woman’s neck.

“This woman isn’t a Hindu!” he cried. He extricated the body and placed it to one side of the pyre.

Then he noticed an almost imperceptible quivering of her eyelids. Intrigued, he bent over the body. The hands and feet were
neither rigid nor cold. This woman with bells on her ankles was not dead, he was sure of it. He put her on one of the trucks
that was going to bring back more corpses from Hamidia Hospital and climbed up beside her. Frothy bubbles were coming out
of her half-open mouth. Piyush Chawla could not help wondering whether he was witnessing some supernatural phenomenon.

It was exactly two in the afternoon by the clock in Spices Square on that Monday the third of December when the smoke from
the first funeral pyre rose into the sky over Bhopal, reducing to ashes those people whom Carbide’s beautiful plant had promised
happiness and prosperity. Blowing now from the south, a light breeze carried away the last traces of deadly gas and replaced
them with a smell even more appalling: the aroma of burning flesh.

T
uesday December 4, eight-thirty A.M. The athletic figure of the CEO of Union Carbide made his entrance into the boardroom
at the company headquarters in Danbury, Connecticut. Since the previous day, Warren Anderson had been given hourly reports
on the situation in Bhopal. For a son of immigrants who had managed to haul himself up to the top of the world’s third largest
chemical giant, the tragedy was as much a personal disaster as a professional one. Anderson had set his sights on making Union
Carbide an enterprise with a human face. Of his 700 industrial plants, employing 117,000 people in 38 countries, the Bhopal
factory had been his favorite. It was he who had inaugurated it on May 4, 1980. The first drops of MIC that emerged from its
distillation columns that day had been his victory. Thanks to the Sevin thus produced, tens of thousands of Indian peasants
would be able to conquer the menace of famine.

As soon as he heard about the tragedy, he had set up a special team to deal with events in total transparency. He had arranged
for the media to maintain a constant link to the company spokespeople. Then he had shut himself away in his home office in
Greenwich to think about what his initial reaction should be. Having made his decision, he called his closest assistants.
Despite the terrified entreaties of his wife Lilian, he would leave immediately for Bhopal. His place was there, among the
victims. He wanted to see for himself that everything that could be done was being done. His gesture would help underline
the fact that the company he controlled was not a faceless, soulless giant, and that the recent tragedy was just one accident
along a path intended to create a better, more just world. In short, his presence at the scene of the catastrophe would be
an expression of the ideal that inspired him.

In addition to a sense of moral obligation toward the victims, he also felt a responsibility to the company’s shareholders.
Doubtless Carbide had the financial means to survive the worst possible disaster. But if the terrible news he had received
was accurate, his duty was to do everything in his power to prevent his company from appearing cruel or irresponsible to its
shareholders.

By the somber faces that greeted him that Tuesday morning in the presidential boardroom at Danbury, Warren Anderson could
tell that his colleagues were hostile to his plan. There was no shortage of arguments against it. First, he would be risking
his life: India was an unpredictable country. One month earlier, Indira Gandhi had been assassinated because her army had
killed far fewer people than had died at Bhopal. Some grief-crazed survivor might make an attempt on his life. Then again,
under pressure from outraged public opinion, the Indian government might imprison him on arrival. Either way, his journey
risked giving the unnecessary impression that the multinational was directly responsible for the tragedy, when it would be
better to let its Indian subsidiary take all the blame. There was also the fact that there was every likelihood that the visit
would be perceived as a provocation. Finally, it would expose the company’s chairman to dangerous confrontations with India’s
new political authorities, and with the press, lawyers, judges, diplomats… . Even those in charge of the Indian subsidiary
who had been consulted over the telephone showed little enthusiasm for the idea of having their top man arrive at the scene
of the accident. Anderson, however, had made up his mind.

“I’ve weighed all the risks,” he declared, “and I’m going.”

On Thursday December 6 at five o’clock in the morning, a Gulfstream II twin-engine jet plane landed at Bombay’s Santa Cruz
airport. No one took any notice of the three initials engraved on its crest, yet they belonged to the American company that
had just inflicted death upon the country. Suffering from the flu, exhausted after the twenty-hour flight, Warren Anderson
traveled discreetly to the luxurious Hotel Taj Mahal opposite the symbolic arch of the Gateway of India, where a suite had
been reserved for him. The two Indian gentlemen there to welcome him, Keshub Mahindra, President of Union Carbide India Limited,
and V.P. Gokhale, its managing director, brought him up to date with the latest figures from the accident. By then people
were talking about three thousand dead and two hundred thousand people affected. Fortunately, the two Indians also had some
good news: Arjun Singh, the chief minister of Madhya Pradesh, and Rajiv Gandhi, head of the country’s government, had agreed
to see Carbide’s chairman. That was one source of satisfaction for Anderson; he could at least convince them that his company
was ready to compensate the victims,

starting with at least five million dollars’ worth of emergency medical aid.

In an effort to be discreet, Anderson and his two partners flew to Bhopal the next day in the Boeing 737 of a regular Indian
Airlines flight. The company jet would rejoin the chairman in Delhi to take him back to the United States.

On landing, the American noticed a small group of policemen on the tarmac. “How tactful of the local authorities to have sent
us an escort,” he thought. As soon as the staircase was in position, two officers climbed on board and a voice came over the
cabin address system. “Mr. Anderson, Mr. Mahindra and Mr. Gokhale are invited to leave the aircraft first.”

Ah, the wonders of Indian hospitality! Police Chief Swaraj Puri, who on the night of the tragedy had watched his policemen
flee, was at the foot of the plane in the company of the city’s collector to welcome the visitors with warm handshakes. All
that was missing was the traditional garland of flowers and a pretty hostess to give them a welcoming tilak. Anderson and
his companions took their seats in an official Ambassador brought to the foot of the steps. The car took off like the wind
and left the airport via a service gate to avoid the pack of journalists waiting in the arrivals hall. The police chief and
the collector followed in a second car.

“Thank you for having gone to the trouble of fetching us,” Anderson said to the uniformed inspector sitting beside the driver.

“It’s standard procedure, sir. There’s considerable tension in the city. It’s our duty to look after your safety.”

Despite the tragic circumstances, the American took pleasure in being back in the city, the beauty of which he had so admired
when the factory was inaugurated four years earlier. The minarets of the mosques casting their reflections in the waters of
the lake, the numerous parks brimming with flowers, the picturesque old streets bustling with activity; everything seemed
so normal that he found it difficult to believe that the city had just been through so dreadful a nightmare.

The car climbed toward the Shamla Hills, entered the grounds of the research center and stopped in front of the company’s
splendid guest house. Anderson was astonished to find two squads of policemen assembled on either side of the door to the
establishment. An officer was waiting on the steps. As soon as the three visitors got out of the car, he stepped forward,
came to attention and saluted. Then he announced, “I regret to inform you that you are all three under arrest.”

Anderson and his partners started with surprise. The policeman continued, “Of course, this is a measure primarily for your
own protection. You are free to come and go about your rooms, but not to go out or use the telephone, nor to receive visitors.”

At that moment the police chief and the collector arrived. They were accompanied by a magistrate in his distinctive black
robe. The American felt reassured; certainly there had been some misunderstanding. The officials were coming to set them free.
In fact, the magistrate had been summoned to notify the three visitors of the reasons for their arrest. He informed them that
by virtue of articles 92, 120B, 278, 304, 426 and 429 of the Indian penal code, they were accused of “culpable homicide causing
death by negligence, making the atmosphere noxious to health, negligent conduct with respect to poisonous substances and mischief
in the killing of livestock.” The first charge was punishable with life imprisonment, the others carried sentences of between
three and six months.

“Naturally, all those charges carry the right to bail,” intervened Keshub Mahindra, president of Carbide’s Indian subsidiary.

“I’m afraid that is, unfortunately, not the case,” the magistrate replied.

“So what about our meeting with Chief Minister Arjun Singh?” asked the American anxiously.

“You will be notified about that as soon as possible,” the police chief informed him.