Once again, however, the good fairy of chemistry came to the rescue of its disciples. One thing upon which they were all in agreement was that before beginning their investigation, they needed to be certain that no further accidents could occur. It was this concern that haunted Woomer. There were still twenty tons of MIC in the second tank and one ton in the third. At any moment, those deadly substances could start to boil and escape in the atmosphere. On this, Americans and Indians were in accord. Should they repair the flare and burn the gases off at altitude? Should they get the scrubber back in order and decontaminate them with caustic soda? Should they try and decant them into drums and evacuate them to a safe place? In the end it was Woomer who came up with the solution.
“Listen!” he said, in his nonchalant but reassuring voice. “The best way to get rid of the remaining MIC is to use it to make Sevin.”
“But how?” asked the Indian professor, stupefied. “By getting the plant running,” replied Woomer. “After all, that was what it was built for.”
Making Sevin meant cleaning all the pipework, pressurizing the tanks, repairing the faulty stopcocks and valves, reactivating the scrubber and the flare, lighting the alpha-naphthol reactor again… . It meant reengaging all the systems of a plant, the wreckage of which had just caused a catastrophe unprecedented in history.
“How long would it take you to attempt such an operation?” asked the Indian professor.
“No more than five or six days,” answered Woomer. “And what about the local people? How are they going to react when they hear the factory’s going into operation again?”
The American engineer could not answer that question. Someone else was going to do it for him.
45
“Carbide Has Made Us the Center of the World”
The chief minister of Madhya Pradesh was exultant. Warren Woomer’s idea would enable him to erase the memory of his surprising absence on the night of the tragedy and win back his electorate. This time he would be seen right there on the battlefield. To ensure that his heroism paid off, he would need to convince the people of Bhopal that restarting the factory would be extremely dangerous. He therefore promulgated several safety measures with the purpose of creating an atmosphere of panic. He ordered all the schools closed, despite the fact that they were in the middle of exams and most were situated outside the risk zone. Next he called in eight hundred buses to evacuate all those living within a two-and-a-half-mile radius of the factory. Once people were well and truly terrified, he revealed the plan from which he would emerge a great man. He dispatched an army of motorized rickshaws equipped with loudspeakers across the city. The whole of Bhopal then heard, in his steady, reassuring voice, “I have decided to be present in person in the Carbide factory on the day when its engineers start it running again to remove the last drops of any toxic substances. This moment of truth will be a token of your humble servant’s dedication to your cause. This is not an act of courage, but an act of faith, and that is why I am calling this challenge to get rid of any residual dangers at the cursed factory, ‘Operation Faith.’”
As the fateful day for restarting the factory approached, businesses closed, streets emptied and life came to a halt. The chief minister encouraged the exodus to become a torrential flood. Driven by the fear that he had so adroitly stirred up, people threw themselves into his eight hundred buses and into any other means of transport. They abandoned their homes in buffalo carts, rickshaws, scooters, bicycles, trucks, cars and even on foot. The railway station was taken by storm. Afraid that their homes would be pillaged, people took with them anything they could. One woman left with her nine-month-old goat in her arms. For the oldest Bhopalis, the sight of trains covered with people piled on the roofs, hanging from the doors and steps, brought back sinister memories of India’s partition. “This spontaneous migration,” wrote the Times of India, “defies all reason.”
The newspaper was right: Bhopal had lost all reason. Yet, as Ganga Ram and Dalima were to find to their astonishment on their return to Orya Bustee, it was not in the place worst affected by the gases that the terror raged most intensely. If anything, the reverse was true. Their neighbors might look like ghosts with their cotton wool pads on their eyes, but they were no longer afraid. Although the deaths of Belram Mukkadam, Rahul, Bablubhai, Ratna Nadar, old Prema Bai and so many others had created an irreparable void in their small community, the joy of being reunited with friends was stronger than the fear of another disaster. The reunions of Ganga and Dalima with Sheela and Gopal, Padmini’s mother and brother; with Iqbal, Salar and Bassi, to name but a few, were occasions for celebration. What a joy it was to discover that Padmini was still alive in Hamidia Hospital and that Dilip was with her! What a relief to find one’s hut intact when so many others had been looted!
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 intre
pid 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.”
Epilogue
No 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 catastrop
he 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.
Some groups now estimate that the gas from the beautiful plant killed as many as between sixteen and thirty thousand people.
More than half a million Bhopalis suffered from the effects of the toxic cloud, in other words, three in every four inhabitants of the city. * After the eyes and lungs, the organs most affected were the brain, muscles, joints, liver, kidneys and the reproductive, nervous and immune systems. Many of the victims sank into such a state of exhaustion that movement became impossible. Many suffered from cramps, unbearable itching or repeated migraines. In the bustees, women could not light their chulas to cook food without risk of the smoke setting off pulmonary hemorrhaging. Two weeks after the accident, a jaundice epidemic struck thousands of survivors who had lost their immune system defenses. In many instances neurological attacks caused convulsions, paralysis and sometimes coma and death.
More difficult to assess, but just as severe, were the psychological consequences. In the months that followed the disaster, a new symptom made its appearance. The doctors called it “compensatory neurosis.” A number of Bhopalis developed imaginary illnesses, but some neuroses were very real. The most serious psychological effect was ghabrahat, a panic syndrome that plunged patients into a state of uncontrollable anxiety with an accelerated heartbeat, sweating and shaking. Those suffering from it lived in a permanent nightmare state. People with a tendency toward vertigo suddenly saw themselves on the edge of a precipice; those who were frightened of water thought they were drowning. With its associated depression, impotence and anorexia, ghabrahat brought desolation to a large number of survivors, sometimes making them view the catastrophe as a divine punishment, or as a curse inflicted on them by some member of their family. Ghabrahat drove many to despair and suicide.
Five Past Midnight in Bhopal Page 31