NK SINGH
That
cold December night of 1984 will be etched in my memory forever. I was fast
asleep under a warm quilt in Bhopal when the phone rang.
My friend RaajumarKeswani, a journalist, living in the old quarters of the town, sounded
agitated, a little incoherent and was gasping for breath and coughing.
He said
there was a commotion in the street, people were running around and something
had happened. “I am having a problem breathing,” he said.
I came
out of my house and was greeted by a bizarre sight. It was almost 1 in the
night but the normally deserted road was jam-packed with people as far as my
eyes could see.
They were walking silently, visibly tired, some of them
carrying children in their arms, others supporting older
people. Many lay on the footpath. Quite a few were very ill and vomiting.
Several others were trying to stop vehicles, already overloaded with people.
I
asked a person: what happened?”
I
looked at him incredulously. I was no stranger to Union Carbide and the deadly
gases they produced.
Raajkumar had been writing for a long time about the
threat that Bhopal faced from toxic chemicals of the multinational’s pesticide
plant.
By this
time my eyes had started smarting. Something was wrong with the air! I Called
Raajkumar, advising him to leave his house, piled on my scooter with my wife
and two children and fled.
A ghost town
As dawn
approached, all roads led to the hospitals. Ordinary citizens set up tents to
distribute food and medicines. By dusk the action had moved to cremation
grounds and graveyards working fulltime.
Thousands
fled the city that day --- the exodus continued for more than a fortnight ---and
Bhopal soon looked like a ghost city. Only those who had to stay --- doctors,
journalists, policemen, government employees and telegraphers --- remained in the
city.
I
returned early to start my work as a reporter with the Indian Express at that
time. As we went around the ravaged town, the full magnitude of the tragedy
sank in --- bodies of families being pulled out of shanties, carcasses of animals
lying in the open, hospitals packed with victims, hundreds of bodies kept
outside the morgue and the streets deserted.
On the
evening of December 3, 2004, as I sat on my type writer to write the story of
the world’s worst industrial disaster, tears started welling up in my eyes.
That evening, and for many evenings after that, tears would keep rolling down
my cheeks even as I hammered at the keyboard to meet the deadline of the
newspaper.
 |
Hindustan Times 8 June 2010 |
Comments
Post a Comment
Thanks for your comment. It will be published shortly by the Editor.