Read Online Five Past Midnight in Bhopal by Javier Moro - Free Book Online
Authors: Javier Moro
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so hungry I lunged at it and swallowed it,” she admitted.
“Luckily people had also thrown away some banana skins and orange peels.” The little sweeper quickly gathered all this and
more. At the first stop, she and her gang took an inventory of their findings.
“Guess what I’ve got in my hands,” she cried, holding her closed palm in front of the boy’s eyes.
“A diamond the size of a cork!”
“Idiot!” laughed Padmini, opening her hand to reveal two small five-paisa coins. “I’ll be able to buy my father two bidis.”
“Well done!” said Dilip with obvious excitement. He took from his waist a sock, a used battery, a sandal and a newspaper cone
full of peanuts. “I’ll sell all this to my usual ragpicker. He should give me three or four rupees.”
That evening Dalima’s son brought his young accomplice a ten-rupee note. He had generously rounded up the amount he had received
from the ragpicker.
Padmini caressed the note for a long moment. Then she sighed, “We’re saved.”
Soon Padmini had her favorite trains and knew all their conductors. Some of them would give her a rupee or two and sometimes
a biscuit when they came across her during one of her sweeps. But there were also the
big dadas
* in Bhopal station. Always out for a fight, they would try and take whatever the sweepers had collected. They were in cahoots
with the police and if Dilip did not give them ten or twenty rupees, out came their clubs.
“Often they would manage to snatch our entire day’s takings,” Padmini would say. “Then I would go home empty-handed and my
mother and brother Gopal would start crying. Sometimes when the trains were running late, I would spend the night with Dilip
and his gang in the station. When it was very cold, Dilip would light a fire on the platform. We would lie down next to the
flames to sleep until the next train came through. There were times too when we slept in other stations, at Nagpur, Itarsi
or Indore, waiting for a train to take us back to Bhopal.”
It was in one of these stations that one night Dilip and his companions would lose their little Adivasi sister.
9
A Poison That Smelled Like Boiled Cabbage
F ATAL IF INHALED ! Displayed on labels marked with a skull and crossbones, posters and printed pages in user manuals, the warning was directed
at the manufacturers, transporters and users of MIC. The molecule was so volatile that its combination with only a few drops
of water or a few ounces of metal dust would prompt an uncontrollably violent reaction. No safety system, no matter how sophisticated,
would then be able to stop it from emitting a fatal cloud into the atmosphere. To prevent explosion, MIC had to be kept permanently
at a temperature near 0° C. Provision had to be made for the refrigeration of any drums or tanks that were to hold it. Any
plant that was going to carry stocks of it needed to be equipped with decontamination apparatus and flares to neutralize or
burn it in case of accidental leakage.
Not surprisingly, the transportation of methyl isocyanate was subject to extraordinary safety precautions. Union Carbide’s
internal guidelines, applicable worldwide, required delivery truck drivers to “avoid congested routes, bypass towns and cities,
and stop as infrequently as possible.” In case of a sudden burning sensation in the eyes, they were to rush to the nearest
telephone box and dial the four letters HELP, followed by 744-34-85, Carbide’s emergency number. They were then to evacuate
their vehicle to “an unoccupied area.”
Carbide had decided to play its hand openly, which was not always the case in the chemical industry. A whole chapter of its
manual detailed the horrible effects of inhaling MIC: first severe pains in the chest, then suffocation and, finally, pulmonary
edema and possible death. In case of such an incident, the manual advised that contaminated parts should be rinsed with water,
oxygen should be
“Luckily people had also thrown away some banana skins and orange peels.” The little sweeper quickly gathered all this and
more. At the first stop, she and her gang took an inventory of their findings.
“Guess what I’ve got in my hands,” she cried, holding her closed palm in front of the boy’s eyes.
“A diamond the size of a cork!”
“Idiot!” laughed Padmini, opening her hand to reveal two small five-paisa coins. “I’ll be able to buy my father two bidis.”
“Well done!” said Dilip with obvious excitement. He took from his waist a sock, a used battery, a sandal and a newspaper cone
full of peanuts. “I’ll sell all this to my usual ragpicker. He should give me three or four rupees.”
That evening Dalima’s son brought his young accomplice a ten-rupee note. He had generously rounded up the amount he had received
from the ragpicker.
Padmini caressed the note for a long moment. Then she sighed, “We’re saved.”
Soon Padmini had her favorite trains and knew all their conductors. Some of them would give her a rupee or two and sometimes
a biscuit when they came across her during one of her sweeps. But there were also the
big dadas
* in Bhopal station. Always out for a fight, they would try and take whatever the sweepers had collected. They were in cahoots
with the police and if Dilip did not give them ten or twenty rupees, out came their clubs.
“Often they would manage to snatch our entire day’s takings,” Padmini would say. “Then I would go home empty-handed and my
mother and brother Gopal would start crying. Sometimes when the trains were running late, I would spend the night with Dilip
and his gang in the station. When it was very cold, Dilip would light a fire on the platform. We would lie down next to the
flames to sleep until the next train came through. There were times too when we slept in other stations, at Nagpur, Itarsi
or Indore, waiting for a train to take us back to Bhopal.”
It was in one of these stations that one night Dilip and his companions would lose their little Adivasi sister.
9
A Poison That Smelled Like Boiled Cabbage
F ATAL IF INHALED ! Displayed on labels marked with a skull and crossbones, posters and printed pages in user manuals, the warning was directed
at the manufacturers, transporters and users of MIC. The molecule was so volatile that its combination with only a few drops
of water or a few ounces of metal dust would prompt an uncontrollably violent reaction. No safety system, no matter how sophisticated,
would then be able to stop it from emitting a fatal cloud into the atmosphere. To prevent explosion, MIC had to be kept permanently
at a temperature near 0° C. Provision had to be made for the refrigeration of any drums or tanks that were to hold it. Any
plant that was going to carry stocks of it needed to be equipped with decontamination apparatus and flares to neutralize or
burn it in case of accidental leakage.
Not surprisingly, the transportation of methyl isocyanate was subject to extraordinary safety precautions. Union Carbide’s
internal guidelines, applicable worldwide, required delivery truck drivers to “avoid congested routes, bypass towns and cities,
and stop as infrequently as possible.” In case of a sudden burning sensation in the eyes, they were to rush to the nearest
telephone box and dial the four letters HELP, followed by 744-34-85, Carbide’s emergency number. They were then to evacuate
their vehicle to “an unoccupied area.”
Carbide had decided to play its hand openly, which was not always the case in the chemical industry. A whole chapter of its
manual detailed the horrible effects of inhaling MIC: first severe pains in the chest, then suffocation and, finally, pulmonary
edema and possible death. In case of such an incident, the manual advised that contaminated parts should be rinsed with water,
oxygen should be
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