The Sit-In Against the MP Govt- Day 9

February 28, 2007
Day 9 of Sit In

The sound of rustling newspaper and the faint odor of Fevicol permeates the air. Paper bag making isn’t as exciting as it was three days ago; less than half the women sitting on the faded red and black carpets are folding and creasing. The rest have formed their social cliques, only associating with people from their communities. The local leaders are worn out from traveling in the bastis all day, and are recharging themselves rather than motivating the inactive groups around them. Frankly, people are tired. Tired of taking out a whole day to spend six hours under a tent making bags, while there are children to be fed, clothes to be washed, floors to be swept, households to run. Rani Sahu has left four children behind to come here. Her mother-in-law’s hand is broken and her husband is at work. Her sister-in-law isn’t at home either. That leaves Rani to prepare breakfast and lunch, do the laundry, and clean her house in Premnagar. No wonder she’s complaining of a headache. You would too if you ran a household of eight persons in sixteen hours, the other eight hours spent traveling to and from the dharna site and taking part in the activities planned there.

People are tired of their government’s irresponsible silence. What happened to the concept of democracy, where the elected serve their people? The case in Madhya Pradesh seems to be one of the government serving itself, even if it entails sucking a man dry of his dignity by leeching off of his meager resources like a desperate parasite. Is the government waiting for more people to die before it will respond to the demands set forth before them? They know what’s been going on for the past nine days, no doubt about it. And yet they watch silently, aware that spending nine days at the Tinshed isn’t the most pleasant experience.

People are tired of eating the same dal and rice everyday, tired of the gas cylinder leaking, tired of the unrelenting flies during the day and the reckless mosquitoes at night. The chilly air stinging their bones and using newspaper piles as pillows, holding the tent’s poles up in the middle of the night, because the structure is swaying too much due to the wind- they just want it to be over.

People are drained physically, mentally, and emotionally. Fighting twenty-two years, struggling at ever step, losing loved ones on the way, it either strengthens one’s morale or weakens it. That is the spectrum the Bhopalis fall on. Most people here today fall somewhere in between; they would not be spending six hours at the Tinshed if they didn’t have faith in each other and in themselves. No one said justice came easy.

There is frustration at the battle ahead, but with it comes joy at the little victories. Victories like finally getting Gulab Bai, fondly called Madame Rose, to sing at the nighttime dhol session. The fatigue and frustration is quickly forgotten as she holds a water bottle on her head and sways back and forth in place. We laugh at her musings and admire her spirit. People like Gulab Bai are an inspiration to those around her. Her wrinkled face and toothless smile fill us with warmth, and the fatigue slowly melts away.

The Sit-In Against the MP Govt- Day 8

February 27, 2007

Each day, the Tinshed tells a different story about the people present there. Stories about widowed women, handicapped children, and the sense of loss that hangs heavy in the air around the communities that have suffered for so long. Today’s story was not as dismal. It focused on the people that have benefited from yoga and ayurvedic treatment at the Sambhavna Clinic. People like Toufique Jahan, a thirty-five year old woman who remembers the night as if it was yesterday.

We thought that someone had burned chillies. People were shouting and running outside…we just lay in bed and switched on the fans. We were as good as unconscious. In the morning, some people came and took us to the hospital where we were given some medicines and eye drops.

A constant cough, eye problems and breathlessness were only the tip of the iceberg for Tofique, and she later developed shoulder pain and gastritis. After doing yoga at Sambhavna, she has had 95% relief, calculated by the increase in range of motion and decrease in pain.

Sandeep would have remembered the night too if he had been born nine years earlier. The fourteen year old has a gentle smile that seems to be a permanent presence on his soft-featured face. He moved to Prem Nagar eleven years ago, to an area that is about one kilometer north of the Union Carbide factory. Due to drinking contaminated water, he suffers from weakness, body pain, headaches, and poor vision. After five days of doing yoga at Sambhavna, his body pain and headaches were significantly reduced.

There are many other such cases at the clinic, like diabetes-ridden sixty-seven year old Jokhan Singh whose blood sugar dropped twenty points and his drug dosage was reduced by half. Forty-five year old Leelabai had multiple skin problems which ayurvedic medicines are relieving, and yoga helped her shed three kilograms of wieght. Sixty-two year old Jihra Bee’s skin is no longer dense with white patches, also due to ayurvedic treatment at Sambhavna. Call them what you may- successes, miracles, perseverance, or leaps of faith. The rooms of Sambhavna are overflowing with such stories.

There are 18,610 men, women, and children registered at Sambhavna who are getting allopathic, ayurvedic, and yoga treatment. But there are thousands of others who aren’t getting any sort of health care. Their mothers, sisters, and wives nurse them because the pills and syrups at the government hospitals only make them sicker, as expired medicines usually do. As far as alternative medical treatments like ayurvedic, unani, homeopathic, and yoga are concerned, the government spends less than 5% of its medical budget on them. Hence, the survivor groups are demanding that the government increase the budget allotted to these forms of health care. Especially since the Sambhavna Clinic is a testament to the hope it instills amongst the gas-affected and water contaminated communities. There was a time when the dead were considered lucky because they didn’t have to suffer any longer. But because of efforts by Sambhavna and now the sit-in, there’s hope that the living dead will someday be reborn.

The Sit-In Against the MP Govt- Day 7

February 26, 2007

It is a common practice for politicians to make promises they won't keep. So it wasn't a complete shock when the ministers of the Samajik Party spent ten hours talking about change and reform, but didn't bother to mention or visit the fifty people a few feet away. The same fifty people who were opposing the government that these party leaders wanted to join. It has been a week since the dharna began-seven days of singing and slogans, weathering wet tents, windy nights, and coal-covered tents, demanding that Shivraj Singh Chauhan come to his senses for the sake of his people.

But no, Chauhan continues to ignore us from his blood-money mansion. It was a little harder, however, for the party leaders on the street below us to ignore our clenched fists and raised voices. As filmy songs blared from their expensive megaphones, we had to shout even louder so our words would not be drowned out. At one point, it became ridiculous; the songs they were singing had nothing to do with serving people- the Bollywood tunes were played simply to attract attention.

While the women at the sit-in made paper bags as a potential source of income, the party's posse rejoiced over how wonderful its Bhopal is. Yes, you will find it wonderful too. Just look away from the poisons that are visible on the faces of young children. Shut your ears to the cries of women and men pleading for proper health care. Forget about the plastic sheet roofs and mud clogged roads in Old Bhopal, and you will find Bhopal to be a spectacular place reeking of perfection. Really.

While we demanded the governments' long due concern, a group of politicians just a stones through away didn't even acknowledge our presence. Unfortunately, this isn't breaking news, this is reality. But it's not a reality we are bound by, for change is possible. We wouldn't be here if it wasn't.

When the time came for the trucks to leave and the overnighters to stay, some names were added while others were removed. Bano Bi had wanted to stay, but her son was sick-again. I need to take care of him, she said of her forty-year-old "child." He was badly exposed to the gas, but can't get treatment as a gas affected individual since she lost the papers that identify him as one. Her smiling eyes lose their sheen as she talks about his two damaged kidneys. "I wanted to donate one of mine, but we don't have enough money for the operation." Bano Bi went on the Padyatra a year ago, and continues to fight for her fellow survivors. It is people like her who desperately need the slowly deteriorating buildings the government calls hospitals to be re-opened with proper equipment and staff. A million dollars worth of medical equipment rotting in dank rooms don't qualify as medical facilities. Adequate healthcare for the survivors hasn't been on the agenda of any political party.

Then again, why would it be? They were not affected by the gas, nor do they drink water laced with toxins. Apathy is an easy way out.

The rambling of the politicians continued for hours, and the painful annoyance of it was relieved by the unexpected visit of a former Union Carbide factory worker.

C.R. Asokan worked at the MIC storage facility at Union Carbide from 1977-1984. He was sleeping when it happened. "People started running, we did too," he said of that fateful night that changed the lives of thousands. Mr. Asokan has a script which he swears is prime movie material, yet won't identify himself as a former Union Carbide worker who wrote it. Strange.

Ministers claim they'll change the world. Ex-Union Carbide employees claim their film will be a super hit. Promises are just that easy to make. No one knows this better than the people here who have been deceived their whole lives. Garlanded men in Nehru hats with plenty of microphones and no integrity have made slogans their habit. Things will change. We will make sure of it. Elect us. People are tired of waiting, sick of a lifetime of lies and unfulfilled agendas. A week has gone by at the sit-in. The strength of the men, women, and children here will only grow with each passing day; they will not be deceived any longer.

The Sit-In Against the MP Govt- Day 6

February 25, 2007

There’s a multitude of reasons why the Bhopal Gas Disaster can be classified as a tragedy. Thousands of people died due to negligence by a multinational corporation whose current owner refuses to recognize the criminal liabilities its subsidiary faces. Tons of chemical waste still lurk beneath the surface, polluting the land and water around the factory site. Despite being the world’s worst industrial disaster, there are plenty of people that have never heard of it or think that justice has been served to the people of Bhopal. The list is long, the reasons are many, and the criminals refuse to take responsibility for their actions. We know this. But the greatest tragedy of the disaster is that it is a monster that is still very much alive, affecting the second and third generations of Bhopalis. These individuals were not even alive at the time of the gas leak in 1984. They might have been secure in their mother’s womb until the poisons permeated through their fragile membranes and killed them in an instant. Others survived, only to lead a life cursed with deafness, mental retardation, deformed bones, and a range of disorders whose treatments far exceeded the financial resources of the children’s families. There wasn’t much hope for these children of the gas. That is, until the Chingari Trust brought some light in their sorrow-filled lives.

In 2004, Bhopal’s very own Rashida Bi and Champa Devi Shukla received the Goldman Award, the environmental version of the Nobel Peace Prize. They donated their $125,000 award to the Chingari Trust, which started functioning in 2006. The Trust sponsors the medical treatment of children under the age of twelve who are born disabled, and is run by three courageous individuals: Hari Prasad Joshi is the manager, Mohammed Israel Khan is the accountant, and Usha Tilwani is the primary caretaker. These individuals as well as thirty children of the 110 registered at the Trust came to the Tinshed today with their families. Of these thirty, eight had recently been sent to Delhi for cleft lip and orthopedic surgeries. The families present at the dharna site held photographs of their children before the surgeries and proudly held their “treated” children with smiles of relief and hope; yes, now their sons and daughters would be able to lead relatively normal lives. And yet there are many more who were still dumb, deaf, blind, and physically and mentally deformed. Clicking cameras and interviews transformed these children from humans to marketable objects of suffering. And for what? So our next door neighbors would spend two minutes reading about the children’s grim reality, and maybe, just maybe, do something about it.

There are children who were poisoned internally due to the gas leak. Then there are children who are still being poisoned today by the contaminated groundwater. They were born without holes in their lungs or fused joints, but the water they drink, bathe, and clean their clothes with is poisoning them by the bucketful. White patches on their faces and the rashes on their skin are only the visible effects of using the murky red water that gushes out of their community hand pumps. Boiling it does not kill the mercury and lead that floats ominously alongside other pollutants in their steel pots. And who is responsible for carrying the empty buckets and oil gallons to be filled with this poison? In Prem Nagar, it is the children that are responsible for undertaking this task. It is the children who suffer along with everyone else, and it is the children who spoke out for their community in a play they performed at New Market’s ice cream hang out place, Top N’ Town. A crowd gathered quickly, curious as to why a group of giggly, energetic children were carrying small trashcans and a broom, among other props. These eight kids- Aarti, Rekha, Sarita, Tasneem, Ajay, Vijay, Pinky, and Nilesh- would bring a smile to anyone’s face, especially after watching them open up during practices and mature as young actors and actresses. They showed their ice-cream eating audience what happened on the night of the disaster twenty-two years ago, and the difficulties they face while fighting for water at the water tank that is supposed to have clean water. That is, when it has water at all. The play ended with a scene showing the cunning, self-absorbed greed of Tata and Dow, concluding with a staged protest in which the children oozed passion out of every pore while screaming the slogans they knew so well by now. Their story is the story of many children in Bhopal, children that are forced to mature because their parents can not work, or because they have to take care of their sick siblings. Schooling is a luxury not everyone can afford. We can learn a great deal from the children who are affected by the gas disaster, for they are the future of Bhopal and deserve to be heard.

Two of the girls in the play, Aarti and Sarita, spent the night at the sit-in site and sang along with the older women. They were hyperactive and chatty, somewhat of a universal trait for teenage girls. At the end of the day, kids will be kids. Just like the Tinshed will be ringing with the sounds of the dhol and loud voices singing wedding songs. Both are inevitable.

The Sit-In Against the MP Govt- Day 5

February 24, 2007

Paper-bag-making was the highlight of the afternoon. The turn-out was mild but the products were close to perfection, the women having fine-tuned their skills after making multiple bags already. The ice-cream man who travels by the sit-in site daily and parks his cart across the street was staring intently at our tent. Would he care about what we are doing? His business wasn’t booming at the moment, so we dropped him a visit. Shiv Charan the ice-cream man was more supportive than the lady at the nearby kiosk. While she feigned ignorance (and didn’t want to be educated) Shiv Charan expressed solidarity with the gas survivors and promised he would tell his friends and family about what has been happening at the Tinshed for the past five days. Does he think justice is near? “Everyone deserves the demands you have up there”, he motioned with his head toward the banner that was gracing the front of the tent. “You will win.” Yes, Shiv Charan, we will.

The weather was beautiful, the breeze strong, and there was no event taking place today that would classify as a media-magnet, other than the fact that people were taking time out of their day to express solidarity with a cause that’s already led to thousands of deaths. But deaths are not enough to attract the media, so the morning and afternoon were spent planning for tomorrow’s events. However, the relative uneventful-ness of the day was compensated for by the hysteria that took place after the sun had set.

Mother Nature has a habit of rearing her face at the most inopportune moments. This was one of them. The breeze had been strong, but by nightfall it had become a little too strong. While the leaders of the local campaign discussed future plans, the cream colored flaps on the side of the tent whipped back and forth at the mercy of the wind. The tent’s lean poles wobbled back and forth and the lone light bulb that illuminated the sit-in area flashed on and off ominously, like a scene out of a bad horror movie.

It wasn’t until closer to midnight that a drizzle sent a few drops of rain on our faces. Those few drops became a nuisance only when the cloth roof of the tent couldn’t hold the water out, and a portion of the tent became drenched. We ran for shelter into what classifies as a room but was much smaller and damper, covered from wall to wall in some black slime that could have been coal sludge or bad fuel. The darkness made it hard to tell, so we made it a point to keep our hands off the walls while ten of us attempted sleep in the packed 6x10 foot storage space. Rachna and Gulabo Bai stayed back in the tent overnight to hold the space, and tried to stay put in the sliver of “drier” space that remained. They are the ones who had it bad. Let’s just say it wasn’t the most pleasant night we have had at the Tin Shed.

There are nights like the ones we have had in the past few days that make the sit-in an enjoyable experience. And then there are those nights which are more memorable than enjoyable. It makes one realize that no matter what the circumstances, natural or unnatural, we are here to stay. If only the Madhya Pradesh government saw firsthand the difficulties that the survivors have to go through, their stone hearts might melt. Just a little.

The Sit-In Against the MP Govt- Day 4

February 23, 2007

They work for the Bhopal Gas Peedit Mahila Stationery Karamchari Sangh (Bhopal Gas Affected Women's Stationery Workers' Union). Clad in dark burkhas with bright pinks and magentas peaking from underneath their cloaks, they gossip and laugh amongst themselves. It is hard to see the anger in their kohl-lined eyes. “All we want is a permanent job”, says Shabnam. She has been working at the stationery unit for nineteen years now, making folders, envelopes, and cards that will be used by government officials. Yet the government they are working for refuses to recognize her and others at the Union as permanent employees entitled to higher wages and employee benefits like their peers at the government press. So how does the government justify paying some of their suppliers well and not the others? “They say we are illiterate and our women are old,” explains Shabnam. Apparently the government finds it perfectly normal to use the folders made by old, illiterate women, but will not pay them what they are due. That is why they are here today, helping Rashida Bi make torches for the procession in the evening. They gather handfuls of the soft, fibrous cotton and wrap it tightly with strips of rags. As they work, a group of women sing together, erasing the differences that others might divide them with. It doesn’t matter if they are Hindu or Muslim, whether they are gas-affected or water contaminated. It doesn’t matter whether they are young or old. It doesn’t even matter if they are on pitch with everyone else. Their earthy tone rings amongst the people that are arriving by the truckload, and soon enough, five hundred people are overflowing the area both inside and outside the tent.

Five hundred people. It’s hard to imagine what that means for someone who hasn’t seen a group that large in one place. It is an endless wave of color, a quilt of browns and reds, greens, pinks, khaki, mothers and children, men smoking beedis, a gathering so large an observer would be sure to sense that something momentous is about to happen. It began at 7 pm.

As people were arranging themselves into the procession on the street, the rag-wrapped torches were dipped in kerosene. Other torches were caked with mud, which had begun to form cracks like the interconnected wrinkles of an old woman’s skin. These torches were also dipped in kerosene, slowly and meticulously allowed to drip clean until the top portion was saturated with fuel. Two lines of people were arranged, with some holding the signs made two days ago while others held the torches that were being lit one at a time. Slowly, but surely, the dispersed flames lit up the individuals now visible in the dusky darkness of the evening. Children briskly following their parents, eight foot banners placed at the beginning and at the middle of the procession, an endless two lines as far back as the eye could see. And at the end of the formation, a police truck – high enough to be a tractor with a single red light glaring on its gigantic structure. The truck followed close behind, while a group of twenty policemen and women were at the head of the march. This was where emotions were at its highest.

The flames lit up the survivors’ faces, their determination and passion more visible than ever. Watching them was like watching a heart beat, the slogans slow and rhythmic in the beginning, then quickening to a pulsating excitement. The fervor was contagious, the roads were clogged, and the media was cliking away at full force. By the time we reached the Chief Minister’s gates, many of the torches had lost their fire. The flames were not as bright, but the passion in the souls of those who were still screaming with great zeal was more intense than any flame could have possibly been. The people asked for nothing new; only what they have been fighting twenty-two years for. Enough is enough, the government can not close their ears to the screams of suffering that should haunt them every night. I don’t know how they can sleep at night knowing that people are dying due to their almost criminal apathy and corrupted consciences. A kilometer from the Tinshed and many slogans later, the procession had come to a halt.

The trucks that had dropped off the residents of Old Bhopal now came back to take them to their homes. The road began functioning again and a sense of normalcy, if you could call it that, returned. The thirty or so people that would spend the night stayed back, so far the highest number of supporters committed to sleeping at the Tinshed. Once again, the dhol was a much desired commodity. Yes, even protestors need to have some fun. And what fun it was!

After a hearty meal of rice and dal, we sat in our blankets and clapped to the tunes sprinkled with laughter. The elderly women sang their trademark “Cuckuroo” song, much to the delight of everyone around them. There’s a certain charm associated with eighty-year-old women singing like little schoolgirls. Moments like these become embedded in one’s memory, because of the sweetness they exude. It wasn’t until 1 am when the singing and giggles finally subsided. The floor was densely packed, with someone’s head inches away from another’s feet. The snores came quickly as a blanket of exhaustion finally set in at the Tinshed.

The Sit-In Against the MP Govt- Day 3

February 22, 2007

Rambai knows what it’s like when everyday is a battle. A year ago she was one of the marchers to Delhi, and today she is still denied what she was promised by the prime minister himself. There is a water tank in her village, but it is currently empty. “The hand pumps are closed because of the contaminated water they release, so there isn’t a single drop of water in Premnagar right now.” Even when it does have water, there is no lid on the tank, so pollutants and waste products form a layer of slimy sludge on the water that’s supposedly clean. In the City of Lakes, Rambai’s community is dry. But water is the least of her worries. “My son was six at the time of the gas. He looks like he’s twelve or thirteen and constantly forgets things.” An underdeveloped child who can not work in a family of six that gets Rs 1500 a month. Yes, Rambai knows what it’s like when everyday is a battle. That is why she was enthusiastic about the paper bag making she learned today. We can earn a living by selling these bags, she said. Now that’s an idea.

Using recycled newspaper to make bags is an eco-friendly way to eliminate the use of plastic bags as well as a source of income-generation for the fifty or so women that were trained today by a young woman named Savitri. She folded and creased, glued and strung as the women followed, teaching themselves and others around them. Their hands were busy and their faces glowed with pride as they admired their individual masterpieces. All in all, about eighty bags were made- some even started using them!

The group that remained in the evening was smaller than it had been the last two days. As a result, efforts are being made by community leaders to recruit more people to spend the night. The strength of hundreds that come during the afternoons has to be maintained for all twenty-four hours of each day in order to send a strong message to the government and to the policemen that have become quite comfortable sitting across the street. This point has been raised in the many meetings that take place at the Tinshed, meetings that deal with the strategic nuances of the next few hours to the next few days, going into meticulous detail on everything from buying groceries for the next meal to sending out press releases. The media has been lukewarm in its support so far – a representative from NDTV promised a piece tomorrow, while a snapshot from the protesting yesterday graced the fifth page of another newspaper, the only elaboration being a two-line caption. Media support is crucial for a sit-in such as this. The rest of Bhopal needs to know what the plight of their fellow citizens is. Apathy is simply not an option.

A recording of Shekhar Suman’s show, Aap Ka Hak (Your Right), was shown in the evening. This particular segment dealt with the plight of the Padyatris and the reasons they traveled to the capital for. Debates ensued between party representatives and the survivors, students in the audience and media spokespersons. The film screening was sparsely attended, but conveyed a powerful message to the people that watched it: the battle is far from over. We won’t back down until you give us what we deserve. It’s written in large blue and red letters, sprawled across two banners in two languages for your bi-lingual convenience. We deserve the right to live.

The Sit-In Against the MP Govt- Day 2

February 21, 2007

The day began as each day in Bhopal typically does- with a piping hot glass of chai. Before the sun reached its zenith, trucks overflowing with the residents of gas-affected and water contaminated communities reached the Tinshed. There was singing and dancing, accompanied by the rhythmic beats of the dhol. Songs directed towards Shivraj Singh Chauhan reverberated amongst the hundred or so individuals sitting under the tent that will soon be a familiar sight for the police watching from a distance. Yes, the police watch us, a group of four or five men on a constant vigil from their shack across the street. In the evening they came by the tent as we were working on poster making for the upcoming rallies. “Come, sit!” someone from our tent quipped, “have something to eat.”

“No thanks, we already ate,” the khaki-clad man responded. Rachna retorted with a “You ate and you didn’t even bother to invite us?”; being civil never hurt anyone, and as was the case here, can make a potentially hazardous situation into a source of amusement. A reunion of the Padyatris was another reason to sing in pitch-deprived harmony. A year ago, fifty-five brave individuals- male and female, young and old- walked 800 kilometers to ask the government for what had been denied to them for twenty-two years. Twenty-two years.Think about how long ago that was. What were you doing twenty-two years ago? Would you be where you are today if your children were born handicapped? What if the water you drank turned a sickly copper red after it came out of the hand pump? It didn’t matter if you could sing or not- you did it anyways and joined in the single voice that passerbys heard. A voice that didn’t need a language to be understood.

Once the trucks left with the people they had brought, the few that remained chatted amongst themselves and the youth worked on poster-making for the rallies that would follow. Someone would write the slogans and others would paint them with an assembly-line-like regularity. The people that came later in the night also helped with the posters, and the last one was finished after dinner. They demanded proper medical care, pension, and jobs, among other things. A few were in English, but most posters were made in Hindi, the black and red letters boldly popping out of the thin brown cardboard. “22 Years is Enough,” they screamed.

About twenty-five people remained to spend the night, one of whom was Rajbai. She is a widow who moved to Bhopal about a year ago. Within three months of drinking the poisonous water in the Chola Mandir community, she developed severe pain in her thighs, the kind that made every movement from standing up to walking a form of self-torture. “What can I do,” she complains, “my son can not walk properly, because one of his legs is deformed. I am just an old woman and can not even lift five kilograms now.” Her weathered face looks tired, yet she goes on. “We get only one hundred and fifty rupees from the government each month but the medicines and massage oils are sixty rupees in themselves. How do they expect us to live on such little amount of money?” So why is she at this sit-in, what does she want from the government? The same thing thousands of other in similar situations are demanding: economic rehabilitation. “Give us money, or give us jobs” is her plea to the Madhya Pradesh government.

Despite the pain she lives with daily, Rajbai manages to join her fellow females in more singing as the evening ends on the more light-hearted note of wedding songs. Yet even though the words are different the message is still the same. Through their words and movements, the women are speaking to themselves, to each other, to people whose deaf ears they are trying to reach: “We may be poor, we may be sick, we may be tired, but we have the right to live.” The right to live with clean water, with jobs, with healthy children, things many of us take for granted. The right to be happy, even if it is by singing about a girl telling a boy to stop teasing her. The laughter makes people forget about harsh realities they would rather not dwell over.

The Sit-In Against the MP Govt- Day 1

Imagine a throng of more than five hundred men, women, and children raising their clenched fists under the heat of the scorching sun. The road is clogged with flashing cameras, newspaper representatives taking interviews, and a group of khaki-clad police watching from a safe distance with lathis in their hands. They have no reason to use them though. The protestors are expressing their anger towards their apathetic Madhya Pradesh government not through violence, but through words so loud you hear them echo inside you. The Bhopali survivors and their supporters are not asking for much, only for what they were promised a year ago when they set out on their march to Delhi. Now the Bhopalis are expressing their outrage at the inaction of their state government by holding a sit-in.

The dharna began at Roshanpura, a busy hub of New Bhopal in a market appropriately called New Market. After two hours of rallying in that area the group, with the 5 foot long banners and blaring megaphones, moved towards another area of New Market known as the Tinshed. A white tent awaited us, quickly filled by the dehydrated and tired masses. The slogans weren’t as strong anymore and the energy weaker, but there were still individuals who raised their fists high and made sure their voice was heard. About two hours later, the group thinned out and mothers began to board the passing buses until thirty people remained. Thirty people that wouldn’t budge until the Madhya Pradesh chief minister, Shivraj Singh Chauhan, kept his word. It shouldn’t take a year to supply your people with clean drinking water, or provide good health care to people suffering from the effects of a tragedy that occurred twenty-two years ago. The survivors have five main demands for the Madhya Pradesh government. In very general terms, they are:

1. Adequate health care

2. Economic rehabilitation by providing jobs for 10,000 survivors of the disaster

3. Social support in the form of a monthly pension

4. Supply of safe drinking water and toxic waste containment

5. Set up a proper administrative system in charge of long term relief and rehabilitation of the survivors

The rest of the evening was relatively mellow. We could have been mistaken for people who just happened to be sitting under a tent, exchanging jokes and riddles, listening to stories, and socializing amongst ourselves. Save for when the microphone was turned on and songs of hope and inspiration followed. Songs that spoke of standing up for justice, of showing the politicians in their fancy suits what the survivors were really about. Sarita, who is two years shy of teenhood, spoke with as much strength and passion as the women leaders of the campaign. Her voice reverberated with a crispness and maturity not too common for girls her age. And so, with songs, conversation, a hearty meal of chole bhature and satisfied bellies, the evening ended. These people who are putting their heart and soul into fighting the local government, who choose to sleep on hard stone floors and be devoured by blood-thirsty mosquitoes, they expect Shivraj Singh Chauhan to agree to their demands and do his duty towards the people that elected him. They expect the end of their fight to be near. And yet they know that this is only the beginning.

Meetings, etc.

Apparently I have a high tolerance when it comes to children. I can't say the same for boring professors or desperate men, but that's another story. But children, those little bundles of joy that don't listen to what you are screaming above their hyperactive voices as they run towards the noise coming from the dhol that's drumming away right next to the school we are practicing in while needing to bring in multiple chairs as props even though we know we won't have them in New Market...ok Pragya, slow down.

Rekha's parents didn't want her travelling an hour everyday, so we started practicing at Dayanand Saraswati School in their community. Pinky's father thought we'd feed her some strange pills and take her to "foreign"...I'm not kidding. Fair enough, seeing how they don't know anything about us, though it did seem a little far-fetched when I first heard it. But now our practices are in the cool stone-walled rooms of the school where the attention-deficitness of the children, especially the boys, sets in quite quickly. They then proceed to go to the toilet multiple times and stare down the three stories from the sunlight-saturated rooftop where we are waiting for them to join the rest of the group.

It's not just their performance on the stage, but also their affection towards us that makes me feel chocolate-melting-in-my-mouth good. After every practice, Pinky holds my hand as she and others walk us across the cricket field to get an auto-rickshaw back to the clinic. Aarti makes it a point to stop by the practices for a few minutes even if she has to take her brother to the hospital or clean the house.

Disregarding the moments when I want to rip my hair out because the kids forget their role each time they perform the scenes, I smile each time Ajay acts out Nilesh's "falling at the water pump scene", or when Sarita and Rekha re-enact what they envision Tata and Dow officials' conversation to be. My favorite part of the play is the end when they break into fist-raising, air-piercing slogan shouting. I am seeing the leaders of tomorrow blossom before my very eyes.

Along with the play practices, attending part of the ICJB meeting was an eye-opening experience, although the 8 hour meetings required a little more brain usage than the play does; I absorbed information for the first six hours or so, after which I would have to focus on how to refrain from staring too hard at the checkered table cloth. It's tiny squares would cause me to zone out on the disccusions that were taking place post hour number six. Not to be mistaken with the meeting being boring, mind you, because it was far from it. It was fascinating to hear the opinions of the leaders in the campaign from Bhopal, Chennai, America, Pune, the UK, and other places I can't remember right now. Peppered with thought-provoking discussion and strategic analysis, the meeting was constantly translated back and forth into Hindi and English, something I had never seen done so efficiently before. Updates, future plans of action, and new committees were formed, and an occasional joke lightened the graveness of the issues being discussed. The food was pretty awesome too- I recall gorging down many a gulab-jamun while my already-full stomach was digesting the scrumptious paneer and naan mixture I had greedily gulped down a few minutes ago. I can confidently say that food makes a eight hour three-day event even better. But it's the people that made the conference what it really was. The zeal of its participants and commitment to the cause is something that I see so much in Bhopal, and yet this was a re-affirmation of how dedicated individuals can be. I will leave in a month, back to a life I used to call "reality", yet these people have made justice for Bhopal their reality. To say I'm impressed is an understatement. To say I'm inspired is only part of the truth. I can't quantify the amount of respect I have for the women and men that were present at the ICJB meeting, I can only hope that some day I achieve half of what they have in this battle against corporate crime and governmental accountability.

Dramatic Rollercoaster

The past two days have been a series of ups and downs for the play. The children are impressively dedicated, showing up to practice through an unforgiving thunderstorm, walking for an hour to the clinic, and walking another hour to go back to their homes in Sundar Nagar. We visited their basti yesterday to get acquainted with the parents. They saw who we were, we answered questions, and the kids performed the scenes they've worked on for them. That's the good news.

Rekha's mother said her father wouldn't allow her to be in the play. Her younger brother Nilesh can participate, but Rekha is a girl, and apparently girls aren't allowed to leave the house for such reasons. Pinky's absence today was for the same reason. There's people like Pinky and Rekha's parents that want to continue the cycle of female oppression by treating them differently. That or they just don't trust us. Or both. Then there is Sarita's father who wants his daughter to be independent and empowered. How is it that families in the same community can be so different in their upbringing of females? We are going to talk to Pinky and Rekha's parents on Friday; they need to know that their children are needed in the play. Pinky, despite her softspoken nature, says her lines well and with oomph. She has a way of talking in a serious tone that is somehow almost sarcastic, it's hilarious.

Yesterday night, Sarita called me and asked if we could come over for dinner. I was gorging my chole bhature down so had to decline but jokingly said that when we do come over, she should make aaloo paranthas. Apparently something was lost in translation (even though we both spoke in Hindi), because today she shows up with a tri-layed tiffin full of aaloo paranthas. For you Pragya Didi, she says. I must not be very funny if people take me literally.

But all's well that ends well- the ten of us shared the paranthas and phenomenal achaar today, before the kids left to take Aarti's brother to the hospital. Amit is three years old but can not walk nor speak. The only way Aarti can come to practice is if she brings him along, and I am so glad she did. She will be the one narrating the first scenes of the play.

Working with these kids is the one thing I look forward to each day. Data entry and reading papers on MIC toxicology can be exciting too I suppose, but they dull in comparison to the smiles on the kids' faces as they leave, turning their heads every two seconds to wave goodbye before the hour long walk that awaits them.

Five Kids and a Play

Jen's the theater person. Diana and I are not. Yet there we were, sitting with five youngsters staring at us, expecting us to tell them what to do. It was an idea-having the children from the bastis perform a play during the upcoming hunger strike. And after today's meeting, it is becoming a reality.

Sarita was outspoken and articulate, mature beyond her adolesence, and gave her 110% in each of Jen's warm-up activities. Rekha and Nilesh were the sibling pair that had done a play at their school before, so they weren't as inhibited as Aarti and Pinky. But by the end of the two hours we spent with the group, they were enthused and wanting to meet the very next day.

During the initial discussion on the subject of the play, the kids told us how their lives are different because of the gas disaster their parents suffered through. Aarti can't even go to school because she has to take care of her handicapped younger brother. But she wants to be a doctor. Nilesh dreams of being a policeman so he can stop the looting rampant in his village. And Pinky...well, Pinky was the tiniest of the bunch: meek, frail, her glazed eyes making it seem as if she was going to cry any minute. But she participated some at the end of the meeting, which was more than the nothing she did in the beginning. She even smiled at one point; it's the small victories that count.

Based on the discussions we had, the play could be over an activity each of these youngsters are very used to- collecting water from the water tanks in their communities. Because the groundwater is contaminated, these children take their empty jugs, buckets and pots and stand in line for two, three, maybe four hours, amidst people fighting to go first before they can get some water from the few water tanks in their bastis. That is, if the water hasn't run out, in which case they have no choice but to resort to the contaminated handpump water. Stay tuned for more news on our directorial skills, or lack thereof. My attempt at theater ended at a failed 11th grade audition where I couldn't "project" enough. Of the three of us, Jen is probably the only one who knows what she's doing.

P.S. I found a mouse scurrying across my bed today and screamed. I don't mind the evil creatures running around on the floor or in the panels of the ceiling, but in my bed? That was reason enough to clean my side of the room. How long it stays that way is another matter.

P.P.S. I am currently obsessed with Tamil music even though I don't speak the language. Wierd, huh?