Five Past Midnight in Bhopal (49 page)

Ganga and Dalima realized at once that the priority for people in their area was not to flee from a fresh threat but to preserve
the fragile thread that attached them to the world of the living. Most had been seriously affected by the gases. They were
in urgent need of medication. The hospital supplies had been exhausted, so costly treatment would have to be brought in from
pharmacies. But with what? Ganga would never forget the sight of his neighbors rushing to the only person now in a position
to help them. Since the catastrophe, the moneylender Pulpul Singh’s house had been besieged by survivors clutching the deeds
for their huts, transistor radios, watches, jewels or anything else they had, in the hope of exchanging them for a few rupees.
People jostled with each other outside the fence, threw themselves at the Sikh’s feet, pleaded and paid him every conceivable
compliment. As impassive as a Buddha, he made a clean sweep of all that he was offered. His wife and son recorded names, took
a thumbprint on the receipts by way of signature and arranged a most unusual array of objects all over their house. Even chickens
that had survived the fateful night could bring in a few notes. That evening, a large box carefully wrapped in a blanket also
found its way into the moneylender’s treasure trove: Ganga Ram had pawned his television. With the money he received he would
be able to help his neighbors get medicine to relieve their suffering. The magic box that had brought his brothers and sisters
so many dreams would have to wait for better days to foster other fantasies.

By December 16, the day of Operation Faith, Bhopal was a ghost town, but television cameras were going to broadcast an event
that had become larger than life. Since dawn, fire trucks had been spraying the streets to neutralize any suspect emanations.
More than five thousand gas masks had been stored at the city’s main crossroads. A cordon of ambulances and fire engines isolated
the factory, while several hundred policemen posted at the various gates allowed only those with special permits to pass.
Among them were the chief minister and his wife. They would both be in the front line. Under the photographers’ flashes they
took their places in the control room, where Shekil Qureshi and his team had been on watch on the night of December 2. Three
military helicopters equipped with water tanks and piloted by men in gas masks, circled continuously over the metal structures,
ready to intervene should the need arise. “To think that it took the death of thousands of people for our government to finally
take an interest in our factory,” said one disillusioned workman as he listened to reports of the operation on his transistor.

Warren Woomer was satisfied; the equipment necessary to get things running again had been repaired in record time. At eight
o’clock precisely, Jagannathan Mukund, surrounded by a police escort, was able to open the stopcock and allow hydrogen to
flow into tank 611. A few minutes later, a supervisor announced that the tank had reached the correct pressure, which meant
that they could start evacuating the first gallons of the twenty tons of MIC into the reactor to make Sevin. At one P.M.,
Professor Vardarajan let the chief minister know that one ton of methyl isocyanate had been turned into pesticide.

Arjun Singh was triumphant. Operation Faith had made a totally successful start. Draining the tanks to the last drop of MIC
would take three days and three nights. Beaming happily, the intrepid politician clattered down the metal staircase of the
beautiful plant with his wife. Already his fellow citizens were preparing to return to their homes. Now he was sure of it:
in two months time they would turn out en masse to vote for him.

“Everyone to the teahouse! There’s a sahib there who wants to talk to us!”

Since Rahul’s death, young Sunil Kumar had taken over as messenger in the alleyways of Orya Bustee. He had lost five of his
brothers and sisters, as well as his parents, in the catastrophe. Bhopal had offered scant asylum to the family who had arrived
so recently from the blighted countryside. The news he spread from hut to hut that morning brought a throng of survivors to
the meeting place.

The ambulance chasers had arrived. They had come from New York, Chicago and even California, people such as the celebrated
and formidable San Francisco lawyer Melvin Belli, who announced that he was lodging a writ for compensation against Carbide
for a mere $15 billion, more than twice the amount of international aid India was to receive that year.

The tragedy made fine pickings for that special breed of American lawyer who lives off other people’s misfortunes and specializes
in obtaining damages and compensation for the victims of accidents. The four or five hundred thousand Bhopalis affected by
the multinational’s disaster represented tens, possibly even hundreds, of millions of dollars in various claims for compensation.
Under American law, lawyers could collect almost a third of that sum in professional fees, a colossal bounty that transformed
the office of Bhopal’s mayor and that of the chief minister into battlegrounds for vested interests. Like big game hunters,
the Americans fought over clients in the various neighborhoods. The Kali Grounds bustees fell to the representative of a New
York law firm. Chaperoned by Omar Pasha, accompanied by an escort of Indian associates and two interpreters, forty-two-year-old
lawyer Frank Davolta Jr., a half-bald colossus of a man, entered Orya Bustee in a swarm of policemen and reporters. The escorts
took up their position around the wobbly teahouse tables. Aides brought baskets full of snacks, sweets and bottles of Campa
Cola for the American to hand out. After the horror of the last few days, Orya Bustee was rediscovering an occasion for celebration.

When the first survivors appeared, the American had difficulty in repressing a feeling of nausea. Many of them were blind,
others dragged themselves along on sticks or lay sprawled out on stretchers. They all gathered in a semicircle on the sisal
mats that had been used for Padmini’s wedding feast. The lawyer looked up with incredulity at the source of all this horror.
In the winter sunshine, the Carbide plant stood glinting at a stone’s throw like one of Calder’s mobiles.

Ganga Ram surveyed the sahib with suspicion. This was the first American ever to come into Orya Bustee. Why was he there?
What did he want? Was he some envoy from Carbide come to convey the company’s apologies? Was he the representative of some
sect or religion wanting to say prayers for the dead and those who had survived? It would not be long before the survivors
learned the purpose of his visit.

The American lawyer stood up. “Dear friends,” he said warmly. “I’ve come from America to help you. The gas killed people who
were dear to you. It ruined the health of those close to you forever, possibly yours, too.” He pointed to the factory on the
other side of the parade ground. “The Union Carbide company owes you reparation. If you agree to entrust the defense of your
interests to me, I will fight for you to receive the highest possible compensation in my country’s courts.” The lawyer paused
to allow his interpreters to translate his words into Hindi, then into Urdu and Orya.

A turbaned man wagged his head, relishing every word. Not for anything in the world would Pulpul Singh have missed this event.
He was already contriving ways of diverting this prospective manna into his safe.

Yet the American was surprised at what little reaction his proposal seemed to engender. The faces before him remained set,
as if paralyzed. Omar Pasha tried to reassure him, “Be patient, the gas damaged many of the survivors’ mental faculties.”
This explanation further engaged the lawyer’s interest. He decided to question some of the victims. He wanted them to tell
him about the dreadful night, to describe the suffering to him. He invited everyone to talk about those they had lost. Sheela
Nadar, Iqbal, Dalima and Ganga Ram spoke in turn. Suddenly the ice was broken. Calamity found a face and a voice. Frank Davolta
took notes and photographs. He felt his file taking shape, assuming a life, gaining weight. Each testimony moved him a little
more. By now, he was breathing so heavily that he had to undo his tie and open his collar. Moved to pity, Dalima came to his
rescue. She brought him a glass of water, which the American downed gratefully. He did not know that the water came from the
well in Orya Bustee that had been poisoned by Carbide’s waste with lead, mercury, copper and nickel, and that the condemned
of the Kali Grounds had been drinking it for twelve years.

While the baskets of snacks were passed around, the lawyer resumed his speech. “My friends,” he explained, “if you agree to
my representing your interests, we must draw up a contract.”

Upon these words, an assistant passed him a file full of forms that he brandished at arm’s length. “These are powers of attorney,”
he explained, “authorizing counsel to act in lieu of his client.” The residents of Orya Bustee who had never seen such documents,
got up and thronged around the American’s table. Like thousands of other Bhopalis from whom American lawyers extracted signatures
that day, they could not make out the words printed on those sheets. They were content just to touch the paper respectfully.
Then Ganga Ram’s voice rose above the crowd. The former leper asked the question that was on every-one’s lips.

“Sahib, how much money will you be able to get for each of us?”

The lawyer’s features froze. He paused as if thinking, then blurted out, “No less than a million rupees!”

This unheard of figure struck the assembly dumb. “A million rupees!” repeated Ganga Ram, unable to hold back his tears.

The television lenses closed in on him as if he were Shashi Kapoor, star of the big screen. Cameras flashed.

“Are you surprised at the sum?” asked one reporter. “No, not really,” stammered the former leper. “Why not?” pressed the reporter.

Ganga pointed a fingerless hand at the pack of journalists jostling around him. “Because Carbide has made us the center of
the world.”

N
o one will ever know exactly how many people perished in the catastrophe. Concerned with limiting the amount of compensation
that would eventually have to be handed out, the authorities stopped the reckoning quite arbitrarily at 1,754 deaths. Reliable
independent organizations recorded at least 8,000 dead for the night of the accident and the two following days.

In fact, a very large number of victims were not accounted for. Among them were many immigrant workers with no fixed address.
Sister Felicity and several survivors from the neighborhoods on the Kali Grounds reported having seen army trucks on the morning
of December 3 picking up piles of unidentified corpses and taking them away to some unknown destination. Over the next few
days, numerous bodies were seen floating on the sacred Narmada River, whose sandy shores had helped to produce the first sacks
of Sevin. Some of them drifted as far as the Arabian Sea, more than six hundred miles away; others fell prey to crocodiles.

In the absence of official death certificates, large numbers of corpses were incinerated or buried anonymously. Per the mufti’s
order, grave digger Abdul Hamid found himself having to bury up to ten Muslims in the same grave. According to the restaurateur
Shyam Babu, who supplied the wood for Hindu cremations, more than seven thousand corpses were burned on the Vishram Ghat Trust’s
five funeral pyres. The Cloth Merchant Association, for its part, stated that it had supplied enough material to make at least
ten thousand shrouds for the Hindu victims alone.

The authorities contested the accuracy of these figures on the grounds that they exceeded the number of claims filed for compensation.
This official reaction did not, however, take into account the fact that in many instances the catastrophe had wiped out whole
families and there was no one left to apply for damages. Over four hundred dead, whose photographs remained posted on the
walls of Hamidia Hospital and elsewhere for several weeks, were never reclaimed by their families. Number 435 was a young
woman with tattoos on her cheeks; 213 was an emaciated old man with long white hair; 611 was an adolescent with a bandaged
forehead; 612 a baby only a few months old. Who were these people? We will never know.