Day 15 of Indefinite Fast in Bhopal

March 19, 2007

The final note revised after a two hour meeting with the Collector yesterday was accepted by the fasters. They would end their indefinite fast this afternoon.Good news has a way of plastering permanent smiles on people's faces.

By noon, a bus packed with the survivors arrived at the Tinshed as words of inspiration rang from their lips. They were so enthused that they began their chorus of slogans even before getting off the bus. People they cared deeply for would eat again today. On the fifteenth day of the hunger strike and the twenty-eighth day of the sit-in, the Madhya Pradesh government would give us a signed acceptance of most of the demands. The pain of starvation, the anguish of police pick-ups and Intelligence monitoring, the sleepless nights and frustrating phone calls to officials- it was all forgotten for this moment of triumph. Families untangled the garlands they had brought for the fasters. A mosambi juice stall was brought near the tent. The owner was duly reminded of the importance of his role. Your fresh juice is going to be the first thing our six people will ingest after fifteen days of starvation. When the time came to provide six glasses of fresh juice, the owner did not ask for money. As the stall rolled near the Tinshed, one thought ran though everyone's minds: When will they come?Soon, the packed tent became one big unit of grins.

Sathyu was the first to arrive. As he got off of his motorcycle, we noticed part of the disguise he had used these past few days. His unruly beard was now a sharp goatee, his face aglow with playful mischief; despite the Intelligence's efforts to track him down, he had escaped the public eye and remained "underground" for forty-eight hours. Immediately, the people surrounding Sathyu smothered him in love, offering hugs, garlands, tears, words, everything they had to offer. The media had arrived and we waited patiently for the rest of the six to come. Fifteen minutes later, they did.

A white Sumo parked behind the tent, and the doors opened to reveal five of the hunger strikers accompanied by a few police officials. Applause. Drums. Dancing. Hugs and kisses. More hugs and kisses. The Tinshed had become dense with rejoicing. Every person was grinning from ear to ear, their eyes glittering with tears of happiness and gratitude, their bodies finally relaxed with the relief that all six were alive and well. Children and adults alike danced in ecstacy, not worrying about who was looking or what they were doing. They danced for the victory they had just achieved, for the success of their month-long struggle. They danced with an excitement that no amount of fatigue, heat, or perspiration could dwindle. This was the time for celebrating.

Soon enough, the Collector joined the revelations, but only long enough for the press to see him and do a few interviews, after which he left promptly. After drinking juice and breaking the fast, the six were in the midst of a crowd so thick, it was difficult to breathe. At one point while Sathyu was dancing, he stumbled. Immediately, people backed out to give him space, and began fanning him with newspapers, hands, the fabric of their saris, anything. He soon recovered. Rachna's situation, however, was a bit more serious.

Now that the fast was broken, Rachna was advised to go to the hospital. There were abnormally high levels of ketones in her system, and she needed help. She left with Champa Didi and was released in a few hours. Meanwhile, the tent was still packed. The fasters' shoulders were weighed down by the weight of the flowers they were affectionately garlanded with. People did not want to leave. But like they say, all good things must come to an end.

Groups of people slowly left; the tent was now simply an empty structure with flowers littered over the rumpled carpet that had been our living room, kitchen, bedroom, and study for twenty-eight days. The electricity was disassembled, the canvases detached, the poles of the tent taken down. Slowly, the memories we had gathered were removed one by one. One flap of the tent had a gaping hole in it because of the Motrin mosquito coil that had singed its fabric. The cartons were bursting with the newspapers we had collected to make paper bags. As the tent became a row of poles and folded cloth, a sense of bittersweet longing filled our thoughts. We had won. Yes, the State had heard our rage-filled voices. We had lived in a tent for a month, forming bonds, laughing together, singing together, living in a unity that only the Tinshed could have made possible. But now it was over. Everyone went their separate ways. Promises of meetings were made, fond memories laughed over, and hands squeezed tightly in gratitude. Sometimes you do not need to say anything to show how you feel. The mist in your eyes and the lump in your throat communicates more than all the words in a dictionary ever could. "


A white Sumo parked behind the tent, and the doors opened to reveal five of the hunger strikers accompanied by a few police officials. Applause. Drums. Dancing. Hugs and kisses. More hugs and kisses. The Tinshed had become dense with rejoicing. Every person was grinning from ear to ear, their eyes glittering with tears of happiness and gratitude, their bodies finally relaxed with the relief that all six were alive and well. Children and adults alike danced in ecstacy, not worrying about who was looking or what they were doing. They danced for the victory they had just achieved, for the success of their month-long struggle. They danced with an excitement that no amount of fatigue, heat, or perspiration could dwindle. This was the time for celebrating.
Soon enough, the Collector joined the revelations, but only long enough for the press to see him and do a few interviews, after which he left promptly. After drinking juice and breaking the fast, the six were in the midst of a crowd so thick, it was difficult to breathe. At one point while Sathyu was dancing, he stumbled. Immediately, people backed out to give him space, and began fanning him with newspapers, hands, the fabric of their saris, anything. He soon recovered. Rachna's situation, however, was a bit more serious.
Now that the fast was broken, Rachna was advised to go to the hospital. There were abnormally high levels of ketones in her system, and she needed help. She left with Champa Didi and was released in a few hours. Meanwhile, the tent was still packed. The fasters' shoulders were weighed down by the weight of the flowers they were affectionately garlanded with. People did not want to leave. But like they say, all good things must come to an end.
Groups of people slowly left; the tent was now simply an empty structure with flowers littered over the rumpled carpet that had been our living room, kitchen, bedroom, and study for twenty-eight days. The electricity was disassembled, the canvases detached, the poles of the tent taken down. Slowly, the memories we had gathered were removed one by one. One flap of the tent had a gaping hole in it because of the Motrin mosquito coil that had singed its fabric. The cartons were bursting with the newspapers we had collected to make paper bags. As the tent became a row of poles and folded cloth, a sense of bittersweet longing filled our thoughts. We had won. Yes, the State had heard our rage-filled voices. We had lived in a tent for a month, forming bonds, laughing together, singing together, living in a unity that only the Tinshed could have made possible. But now it was over. Everyone went their separate ways. Promises of meetings were made, fond memories laughed over, and hands squeezed tightly in gratitude. Sometimes you do not need to say anything to show how you feel. The mist in your eyes and the lump in your throat communicates more than all the words in a dictionary ever could.

Day 14 of Indefinite Fast in Bhopal

March 18, 2007

After all the developments that took place yesterday, it seems like a week has gone by. In reality, however, it has only been twelve hours since we heard the Collector promise a meeting with the Chief Minister today. The morning at the Tinshed is mellow compared to the hysteria twenty-four hours earlier. There is no news of a meeting with the Chief Minister. The afternoon is spent planning for the demonstration that will take place in a few hours.

At 2 pm, a procession of a hundred survivors marches down from the Aaloo Factory to a T-intersection and forms a circular human chain, blocking traffic at all ends. A few policemen watch from a distance as slogan after slogan is raised into the air; children jump wildly with a zeal only they possess. A garland of dirty sandals graces the shoulders of Shivraj Singh Chauhan’s effigy. As media persons arrive and enter the circle, they flash their cameras intently. They continue while the effigy catches fire, and the head becomes a charred mush of hay. The remnants of the effigy are beaten heavily with sticks, the survivors transferring their anger at the Chief Minister into the limp burnt straw. The blocked traffic makes no attempt to disrupt the demonstration. Trucks wait patiently, passerbys stop to observe, and scooters are turned off after failed attempts to wiggle through. The procession ends an hour later, and we are informed of a new development. No, we still have not heard from the Collector. Instead, the policemen that watched the protest have filed a case against ten of the demonstrators for obstructing traffic. Then comes the news we have all been waiting for. There is a meeting with the Collector at 4 pm.

The meeting does not begin until an hour after the expected time. In the concrete-walled claustrophia of the small room, eleven people gather to discuss the future of the survivors. The Collector is already seated as the fasters arrive and sit on the lumpy hospital bed serving as a long chair. Two hours of intense discussion follows- some of the demands, like the implementation of a Drug Policy for gas relief hospitals, are agreed to. Others, like the shipment of the toxic wastes to America or other OECD countries, is vaguely refused. The Collectors responses are peppered with “The government runs on trust” and “We will ensure that it is done.” Meanwhile, he also answers five phone calls, rudely interrupting the fasters while they are speaking. At one point, he is Sir-Yes-Sir-ing quite frequently, indicating that there is a possibility he was talking to Mr. Chauhan himself. At the end of it all, a simple question is raised. When can we meet with the Chief Minister? S.K. Mishra’s scream echoes out to the corridor as he makes himself clear: we can not meet with the Chief Minister. He promised us a meeting with Mr. Chauhan and fulfilled his promise last week. A three minute acknowledgement does not constitute a meeting. “Noooo!” he bellows, while Rachna calmly tells him to lower his voice. “Break your fast,” he insists once again. After much discussion amongst themselves and others via cell phones, the fasters decide that a conclusion would be reached tomorrow afternoon as to whether or not the fast would be broken or not.

As supporters pour into the Psychiatric Ward where the fasters are held prisoners, the police arrive in greater numbers as well. Looks like there are no robberies or murders going on in Bhopal right now; all of the police are being sent here. The man who had made rape threats to the two women supporters is present as well- a certain Mahendra Singh. When he realizes we recognize him and will not let him get away with what he insinuated, he tries to loosen the belt that is choking his potbelly. The immoral intentions of the police are further shown through the actions of Rakesh Sharma. The policeman barks at Jabbar Khan to get a stool and sit next to him. Rachna soon realizes the man is trying to put a case of suicide on them. Once Mr. Sharma sees that the fasters are not going to humor his ploy, he abruptly gets up and left. You know, the first case of suicide was put on Gandhi. He was fighting for freedom. These five fasters, now jailed in a house of healing, are no different.

Day 13 of Indefinite Fast in Bhopal

March 17, 2007

The "13" was being safety pinned to the Right to Live banner just as two truckloads of police screeched to a halt in front of our tent. People were still rubbing their tired eyes when they were surrounded by the fifty policemen. Rachna was sleeping as one policeman grabbed her arms while another clutched her legs; she screamed with opposition at the force that was being thrust upon her. Five of the hunger strikers were brutally shoved into the back of the trucks; even some of the supporters including nine year-old Yasmeen were pushed into the clammy wooden benches, only to be thrown back out after loud protests that claimed she was not one of the fasters. Yasmeen was safe for now, but a few others like Munir were coerced into going with the hunger strikers. A digital camera was snatched from the hands of one of the supporters. "I take personal responsibility for getting it back to you," promised the Superintendent of Police, Anant Kumar Singh. A few minutes later, he proceeded to drive away. Cell phones were taken without reason, names and addresses randomly notes, and an effort to instill fear in the protestors' minds was in full swing. But the slogans became louder, more angry, more fierce.

Shivraj Hamse Darta Hai!

Police Ko Aage Karta Hai!

The Chief Minister of Madhya Pradesh is truly a coward. He refuses to come himself and sends fifty policemen to arrest the five fasters instead. An hour later, some of the police had left with the fasters while others remained. They still had the camera. After being convinced that it did not have voice recording or movie taking capabilities, it was handed back to its owner, but not before the police decided to have some fun. "That play at the Top N'Town yesterday, what was it about again?" [Nandigram.] "No, they were trying to show something," said one of the men who was not wearing a badge. "You know na...if it happens here, what will you do?" He exchanged large grins with another policeman. "What was it called which the actor was saying goes in..." They were clearly talking about the rape scene that had been theatrically enacted as a common occurrence in the recent killings in Nandigram. The other policeman was a bit more tactful. "Don't say it, man. They could have a voice recorder." Was that a threat? It sure sounded like it.

The few protestors that remained were told by the police to clear the Tinshed. You can make us leave this tent, but we will not break the fast. You can force feed us, but then more people will sit on the hunger strike. You can coerce our bodies , but you can not control our determined minds.

Within minutes of an action alert being sent, calls flooded into the phones of those responsible for the arrests. Messages came in every few seconds from all over the world as the fasters were trapped on the third floor of Hamidia Hospital. The fasters are safe, they have not broken their fast and the doctors are being cooperative in that they will not be placed on a glucose drip without their consent. News is bouncing back and forth, from one receiver to another as the hours rush by much too quickly. The Dean of the hospital becomes the next target of the calls- the hundreds of supporters that are protesting outside the hospital are not allowed to visit the fasters, nor is the media allowed to cover what is occurring in the confines of the four walls of Hamidia. Evening quickly approaches as updates are sent in by the minute. The news is not good. The hunger strikers are tied down by lock-and-chain, denied change of clothing and access to phones, even though they are not under judicial custody. At least fifteen policemen are monitoring them at all times; some have the gall to hurl insults and rude comments at the individuals who have not eaten for thirteen days. This needs to stop. Now.

The Collector is fed up. With the volume of calls he gets every minute and the fasters still fasting, he is on the edge of his sanity. We will have a meeting with the government tomorrow , he promises. Break your fast. The hunger strikers reply with the stand they have held for twenty-six days. We will fast until our demands are met. This is perseverance at its finest.

Day 12 of Indefinite Fast in Bhopal

March 16, 2007

Watching people die is not the hardest thing in life. Being a victim of beurocratic power games is not the hardest thing in life. Losing your family to needless violence is not the hardest thing in life. The hardest thing is driving from your home to work, and driving from work to your home.

Parnab Mukherjee, a theatre activist, performed the street play he had shown at the meeting yesterday. Today he was surrounded by those eating Chocobars and Creamsicles at the Top N' Town near the Tinshed. He stuffed a red ribbon in his mouth, then slowly, smoothly rolled it back out. This was the blood of innocent men, women, and children. This was the pain sufferd by countless people just because they wanted to protect their farms from becoming toxin-infested factory grounds. All eyes were fixed on his lone figure as he continued to reveal his hidden props- a magnifying glass, brown tape, a face mask, and a hand whose exterior bore an uncanny resemblance to withered flesh. He slid this hand down his face, across the effigy of Buddhadev Bhattacharjee. As Parnab cited the words of Tagore, the crowd watched transfixed. As soon as he had picked up the last of his props and acknowledged the conclusion of his performance with a nod, the crowd broke into a thunderous applause.

A procession went down the street to Roshanpura. Two volunteers from Yuva Samwad led the way with a white banner that had just been graffitti-ed with words of support, anger, and disbelief. Why Nandigram? CPM = Murderers. The bold words screamed loudly from the white fabric they lay on. The effigy was dragged along the street, his white kurta pajama splattered symbolically with the blood of those he is responsible for killing. Rashida Bi lit the edge of his tunic with a match; the small flame quickly grew as the cloth peeled off his straw-packed body. Within a minute, the white he wore was replaced with a charcoal black, a few strands of hay glowing dimly. As we took the procession down to the Tinshed, one only had to look back to see that the sweeper was sending Buddhadev- rather what remained of him- to his rightful home: the gutter.

The evening is spent doing the mundane tasks that constitute living at the Tinshed- cleaning, cooking, sweeping. The mosquite repelling Motrin slowly releases a hazy smoke that fills the tent with a heavily sweet fragrance. Then comes the news that the Superintendent District Magistrate and the Additional District Magistrate are coming. Keep the camera ready.

They arrive with somber expressions and a paper in their hand.This is what the government is willing to do. As Sathyu reads out the note, the survivors snicker at the mockery that had been made of their demands. Regarding one item in particular, the paper reads "Go to the Revenue Department." Why would we go to the Revenue Department if a Ministry of Gas Relief already exists? The note speaks of one postponement after another.
We believe dialogue should go on. This is a start, they say.
We encourage dialogue, Sathyu replies, but on one condition- that we will not be forcibly removed and hospitalized.
A heated discussion follows, and ends with the ADM giving his word that the fasters would not be removed while this dialogue is taking place.
Give us a reply to this note, and we will continue this discussion.

Just when the situation starts to show promise, the ADM extends his hand out. "Give me the note." He is taking it back? How do we prepare a reply to a note we do not have?
"It is my paper," he retorts, " I would like it back." Wait, let us at least make a photocopy of it. The ADM is adamant. "No, we will make the Xerox, and we will decide if it is okay to give it to you." There is a limit to being ridiculous, and this is far beyond that limit. The Collector has the nerve to call owners of newspaper like the Raj Express and force their journalists to cover "The Missing Six" by coming to the Tinshed after midnight. Outrageous does not even begin to describe the situation. The calls and faxes must be working, because these "important people" have started paying attention again.

Day 11 of Indefinite Fast in Bhopal

March 15, 2007

One word is springing out of each newspaper, television screen, and radio speaker in India- Nandigram. Industrialization of a town that does not want factories to destroy their farms, it is not something we have not heard before. Then why has it become such a hot topic? Precisely because it is not something new, because history has not learned from its mistakes, and because the unfortunate realization is that the people who suffer the most in political violence are the innocent. Men are needlessly murdered, women are brutally raped, children are irresponsibly shot during crossfire. And while the police are supposed to bring order, they further aggravate chaotic situations by taking more lives. The situation is not much different in Bhopal.

Here in the City of Lakes, the police are not opening fire at angry mobs. Instead, they want to arrest six individuals who have been fasting for eleven days so that hundreds of thousands of others may live. Here, the police are not physically violating the women at the Tinshed. Instead, they are stripping them of their dignity by denying them proper medical care. Here, lives are not being taken by bullets. Instead, they are being taken by the criminal apathy and lack of concern by the khaki-clad men and women who are supposed to protect us, not plant seeds of death. It was this apathy against which fifty people gathered in the evening at the Tinshed.

Bathed in the dim glow of the light, shadows jumped on the canvas walls of the tent as Pranab wrapped his face tightly with cellophane, his face reflecting the anguish of those whose loved ones had died- in Nandigram, in Bhopal, in every place where a wife was widowed, a child orphaned, a women violated. Suffering has become a normalcy in too many lives.

Representatives from different organizations sat in a circle and discussed what could be done in response to what happened at Nandigram. The evening ended in a flurry of activity with different tasks assigned to different people. While the activists at the Tinshed were busy writing press releases and painting posters, activists eight thousand miles away were doing everything in their power to make sure that the individuals responsible for stretching the sit-in for twenty-four days now did not get an ounce of sleep.

More than three hundred calls have been made to the Madhya Pradesh government, and nearly two thousand faxes have been sent. One would think that after being the recipient of such pressure, shame, guilt, or anything remotely related to kindness might persuade the Chief Minister to rethink his obstinate take on denying the survivors the right to live. Apparently he wants to continue being sleep-deprived. Don’t you worry Shivraj Singh Chauhan, there are plenty of people who will ensure that you get bombarded with compassion for the Bhopalis. Maybe some of it will rub off on you.

Day 10 of Indefinite Fast in Bhopal

March 14, 2007

Imagine an ocean of angry faces quaking with fervor. As the merciless heat beats down on their weathered skin, they squint to look ahead, and keep moving on. This is what the drivers and pedestrians of New Bhopal saw today as a group of about 1200 people conveyed a simple message to Shivraj Singh Chauhan- Do you think you can get rid of us by ignoring our suffering for twenty-two years? Think again.

It all began at Kamla Park. Starting at ten in the morning, groups began arriving unsuspiciously in city buses by the dozen. Lucky for us, it was the last Wednesday of the Islamic month of Safar, when people usually go for outings. When asked by two curious policemen as to why were lounging on the well manicured lawn of the park, we stated that we were celebrating Budh; sometimes religion works in one’s favor.

People were slowly filling up the nooks of the park which still looked fairly empty due to its vast area. The signal to gather everyone was given at one in the afternoon. Soon enough, the pockets of people conglomerated into a massive procession that slowly headed toward the Chief Minister’s residence. The slogans trailed off towards the tail of the line, but the front of the rally echoed with the call-and-response slogans that have become all too familiar. The never-ending chain of men, women, and children did not quite make it to its destination when the protestors were greeted by four truckloads of police, complete with metal barricades and massive roadblocks. They would not let us pass.

What followed was an hour of demonstrating where the police simply averted their unsympathetic glances by focusing on intense walkie-talkie discussions. The survivors held their six foot long banners with an almost patriotic pride. Large letters spelling the survivor organizations flapped in the sporadic wind that occasionally stirred the air, now heavy with heat. People were sweaty, thirsty, and tired, but the insults directed towards the state government boomed with sparks of energy. Women sought out refuge in shade, a rarity on the scorching asphalt. Children held up banners as their faces shone with perspiration. For an hour, the police refused to budge and the thousand something demonstrators communicated their demands to the seemingly deaf politicians via the blaring megaphones. Each of the six fasters raised their voice with the voices of others. Now on their tenth day of starvation, they only had a bottle of water to keep them going. We had conveyed what we wanted to, and it was time to turn around. The Chief Minister had disappointed us once again, but he had seen what we were capable of. He had been warned.

The walk back to the Tinshed took another hour of trudging in the blistering heat. Maybe it was the fatigue that dimmed the volume of the slogans. Maybe it was the discontent at Chauhan’s still mum administration. Whatever the reason, the thousand plus people trodded back to the Tinshed with dry throats and cracked feet. Some attempted to find a spot on the already crowded carpet, while most women spilled out to the street below, blocking the traffic on one side of the road. The police arrived to move the women against the half wall of the dharna site. The crowd soon thinned out as large city buses came empty and left tightly packed with bodies bursting at the openings of the vehicle.
Exhaustion weighed down the atmosphere at the tent.

The weary walkers that remained now had a chance to rest. Dominique Lapierre, author of “It Was Five Past Midnight in Bhopal”, called to offer support and pass on the news of a possible press conference in Delhi. As dusk crept along, the fasters decided that they would have to find another place to sleep tonight. The presence of ketones in their blood now put them at risk of being arrested and hospitalized. The police were not subtle in their attention towards the fasters, yet managed to miss them as the six slipped out of the tent. The flurry of activity at the Tinshed soon came to a close – at least for today. Maybe tomorrow will be a harbinger of better news from the government, instead of the current status of no news.

Day 9 of Indefinite Fast in Bhopal

March 13, 2007

Where are they?

The question has been asked by the doctor, the police, and general visitors to the tent. The six fasters are nowhere to be seen. Yesterday after the post-midnight police raid, the fasters are not taking any chances; they have gone off to an undisclosed location in order to prevent the police from picking them up, as they intended to last night. As we wait for news from their end, groups of men, women, and children socialize amongst themselves. A light drizzle seeps through the thin cloth roof. What follows is a frantic rush to shelter all things dry under the sheets of blue plastic, only to have the rain stop three minutes later.

The beds of the fasters lie empty, patiently awaiting those that have not touched food for nine days now. As these six plan out the future of the ‘Right to Live’ campaign, the Tinshed is overflowing with supporters from all walks of life. Students from Muskan, women from Mahila Manch, teachers from Eklavya, and the passion-ridden youth from Yuva Samwad offered their support through numerous acts; some fasted in solidarity for the day, while others participated in singing which has become inevitable in the twenty-two days the survivors have occupied the tent. The headline maker of the day was the visit of Narmada Bachao Andolan activist Medha Patakar. As soon as word got out that Medha Patakar is at the Tinshed in support of the Bhopalis’ dharna, the press promptly arrived and flooded her with questions and flashing cameras as phone microphones were thrust in front of her. “The gas peedit symbolize the affected…This struggle, indauntable, gives all fighting imperialistic forces inspiration and strength.” She also said that through Sangarsh 2007, she will raise the issue with hundreds of organizations.

Along with national support, international support is starting to pressure the government from another front. The phone lines are being flooded by callers from America and the United Kingdom. More than a hundred calls a day flood the phone lines of the secretaries and personal assistants of the Chief Minister, the Collector, and the Prime Minister, to the point that they know by now that a call from America or the UK is regarding the fast. Some of the secretaries say they will convey the message to their boss, while others simply hang up. I suppose getting a hundred and fifty calls late in the night could possibly lead to immense frustration. The receptionist at the fax machine does not have it any easier. About 1500 faxes have been sent to the state government. That is fifteen hundred more people all over the world who will not stop until the government ceases its insensitive idiocy and for once, does what it is supposed to do. Because twenty-two years of negligence is much too long.

Day 8 of Indefinite Fast in Bhopal

March 12, 2007

Today is the day for the Principal Secretary to prove himself as a man of integrity. Today is the day the Chief Minister could accept the survivors' demands with a few flicks of his pen. Today is the day when the fasters might start eating again. Today might be the beginning of the end of needless suffering that has taken the lives of thousands and continues to do so.

As the Principal Secretary goes to meet the Chief Minister at 6 pm, the fasters condition continues to falter. They have lost a total of twenty-five kilograms over the course of eight days. The only thing that the Electral is doing is stabilizing their condition. By no means is it providing them with the sustenance they now desperately need. How does Shivraj Singh Chauhan ignore the deteriorating health of six people, knowing very well that he is responsible for their empty stomachs? A person with a sliver of a conscience would have given these six ample time to express their grievances instead of curtly acknowledging their presence for three minutes. He draws thick, unrelenting lines that divide those he will benefit from and those from which he will not. The line of religion allows him to shower his attention on primarily Hindu New Bhopal. The line of class is drawn along how much money you have in your pocket, correlating with the amount of concern that will be directed towards you. These are the lines that segregate the thirty-six affected wards from the twenty non-affected wards in Bhopal. 6 pm becomes 7, then 8. At nine o'clock, there is still no news from the Principal Secretary. But there is other news- tonight, the police might decide to pay us a surprise visit. So the fasters decide that they would sleep somewhere else on this clear star-studded night, a distance away from the tent. Sleep comes quickly, only to be disrupted at 1:30 am.

Fifteen to twenty policemen in khaki and women in navy blue sarees raid the tent, lifting the blankets of the confused sleepers. Where are the six fasters, they ask abruptly. Everyone claims to not know. The police come two more times during the course of the night, and in the morning, they are circulating around the tent, writing down the names of the fasters, including those fasting for a day in solidarity. The expressions on their faces is priceless as the fasters arrive in auto-rickshaws. We were worried for your safety, we didn't know where you were or if you were okay. Imagine, the police concerned for the safety of the fasters. What they were concerned about was where the six individuals were so they could remove them from the Tinshed, possibly to force feed them or take them to the hospital. Call it what you may, the government is finally beginning to take action where its citizens are concerned. It's another story that this concern is portrayed through twenty-four hour police monitoring. Finally, they have started to pay attention.

Day 7 of Indefinite Fast in Bhopal

March 11, 2007

A week. That is how long the marchers to New Delhi had to fast in order for the Prime Minister to agree to meet with them. Seven excruciating days of gut wrenching pain and physical degeneration is what it took for Manmohan Singh to accept four of the six demands the Padyatris placed before him. Yet it has been seven days and the Chief Minster of Madhya Pradesh has still not implemented the four demands that the Prime Minister agreed to a year ago. Six individuals are losing weight by the day, even though their blood sugar has increased since they started drinking Electral with their water. The police presence is sparse compared to yesterday, but that does not mean that they can not show up unexpectedly. They are still monitoring our actions through their representatives across the street. After all, the media will not let them forget why we have been at the Tinshed for twenty days now.

Yesterday’s successful resistance against the police was inked in ten newspapers and shown on numerous news channels today. This led to further coverage as microphones and bulky cameras clustered around Sathyu in the afternoon, eagerly awaiting his update. An hour later, more support arrived in the form of twenty-five men drumming loudly down the street towards the tent. They came from Blue Moon Colony, a water-contaminated community. As their dhol beat loudly, their chants became progressively louder. Their fists were clenched tightly, thrown in the air with each pulsating beat of the drum. Some of the older women danced to its thudding rhythm, expressing their fervor through the flowing movement of their weathered frames. The men from Blue Moon garlanded each of the fasters and offered their gratitude through a simple handshake, a hug, or a smile. Usually it is the women who lead the way in this campaign, but this time the fathers and sons of Bhopal took a stand against the Madhya Pradesh government in solidarity with the fasters.

The day quickly melts into the evening and the lone light bulb that has lived through twenty tense nights is finally giving out. It flashes hypnotically, dimming and brightening the faces of those that sit inside the flapping canvas. The youth from Yuva Samwad arrive and join the women supporters from Mahila Manch who have spent the day at the Tinshed. There are now people from three supporting organizations sitting in solidarity with the survivors; the movement at the dharna is growing stronger with each passing day, while the current administration is being defaced in the eyes of the public. The youth join the survivors in song as the beat of the drum once again fills the tent.

Isliye Rah Sangharsh Ki Hum Chune
Zindagi Aasuon Mein Nahayi Na Ho.
We have chosen the path of struggle
So that our life is not bathed in tears.

We want to be able to drink water without throwing up. We want to have children without wondering if they will be missing limbs. We want a life where smiles are not a rarity, a life where every day isn’t survived but relished with satisfaction. Let us hope that day is not too far off now.

Day 6 of Indefinite Fast in Bhopal

March 10, 2007

They come, they go. Four times, then five, then six. The police are a constant presence at the Tinshed today. We will forcibly take you to the hospital if you don't eat something. Break your indefinite fast.
No, the six reply.

The Chief Minister has agreed to see the fasters. How much time does Chauhan give to those who have not eaten a single morsel for six days? Three minutes. In these one hundred and eighty seconds, he tells them that he will agree to the demands that are "logical and lawful." Who decides what is logical? He does. Who decides what is lawful? He does. We are concerned for your well being. Break your indefinite fast.
No, the six reply.

The fasters are taken to Vallabh Bhavan where they sit for two hours with the Principal Secretary, the Collector, and the Commissioner of Bhopal along with other officials. The demands are fine, we'll see to it that they are met. Now please, break your indefinite fast.
No, the six reply.
Not until we see your promise in writing.

Apparently it takes two more days of fasting to put a promise on paper, since the Principal Secretary said he would have a note ready for the Chief Minister by the twelfth of March. Two more days of starvation. The meetings took a toll on the fasters, who were even more fatigued after traveling and talking for so long. Their skin droops slightly, and the heat presses against their bodies like an unwanted embrace. Two more days and then maybe it will end. We've done it for six days, two more is nothing. There is hope in waiting.

The evening passes lazily, with more supporters arriving to spend the night as the cauldron boils with toffee-colored chai. Guddi Bi, one of the fasters, looks around at the visiting families. "I wish my children were here, but they are upset with me." Her older son, Sabir, has been to the Tinshed twice to show his support and love for his mother. Her younger son, Shahid, is not as enthused. "Shahid is very stubborn, he takes after me. He says if you wanted to kill yourself why did you give birth to us in the first place? Why can't he see I am doing this for him, so he will have a better life than I did?" Guddi Bi will not die; her blood glucose has stabilized since Dr. Trivedi dropped by and made the six fasters drink Electral, an electrolyte supplement, so that the ketone levels in their blood goes down. She brags about her daughter, how she is taking care of her brothers while their mother is gone. "But the neighbors say the house is so quiet now. If I were at home, I would be screaming at them for one thing or another. But now they come home, eat, and sleep." As she waits for the government to accept her demands, her children wait for her to be a mother again.

No one said waiting has to be boring. The youth from Yuva Samwad arrive with a drum and a cache of songs. We sing into the night, learning and teaching the words that have inspired the hearts of many to swing with passion. Blankets are laid out and eyelids become heavy, only to spring open at the arrival of a steady stream of police.

It is 11:15 pm. Ten, twenty, thirty, forty- they keep coming from behind the tent like a string of ants who greedily surround their meal. While we were singing, the police had stealthily parked their vans and trucks behind the tent, so as to remain unseen. There are men and women, some clutching sticks while others have guns hanging from their shoulder straps. There's only one reason why so many police would arrive at the Tinshed- they want to force the fasters to go to a hospital.

The media, doctors, supporters…numbers are being frantically punched into cell phones. The protestors organize themselves into a compact group, facing the uniformed men and women. Slogan after slogan dripping with anger is hurled at the ones who watch with weapons in their hands. The media starts to arrive slowly as discussions are taking place between the Superintendent of Police and Sathyu. Why should we go to the hospitals and get needles injected into our skin if we are already taking Electral? The doctor has sent the police but did not bother to come himself. Rashida Bi is chained along with the others, and her voice is loud and crisp. We want to talk to the doctor; tell him to come here and take our urine samples. If he finds ketones in our blood, we will go lie on those rotten beds of yours at the government hospital. But until then we will not budge from here. The atmosphere is crackling with tension. What will happen next?

An hour passes. There is no sign of the government doctor; instead, two young men who look like they have just graduated from college arrive at the sight, scruffy-faced and tired. They are the doctor's assistants. The doctor is probably too tired to bother with the people he refuses to sit next to during check-ups. The man uses a stool to sit on, and awkwardly bends down to take their blood pressure. The assistants however, don't have a choice. Their tired faces will be plastered in the papers tomorrow, their quickly beading sweat will shine on television screens throughout Bhopal. They nervously take the pulse and blood pressure of the fasters, upon which Dr. Trivedi arrives. While the police are contemplating on what to do, the assistants tell Dr. Trivedi that the condition of the fasters is stable. But they had ketones in their blood, a policeman interjects. That was two days ago, before they had taken Electral, replies Dr. Trivedi. His status as a professor of medicine is respected and his opinion taken. The fasters' urine will be tested the next morning for the presence of ketones. The police disperse in their bulky jeeps, the media leaves with their sound bytes, and the strength of the protestors shines in their relieved and sleep-deprived smiles. Two hours after the debacle began, it comes to a close. But this is by no means an end. The police have shown what they are capable of, and the survivors have proven once again that they will not back down under any circumstances.

Day 5 of Indefinite Fast in Bhopal

March 9, 2007

The police are regular visitors now, “ensuring our safety” as they like to call it. The doctors visit fairly often too, examining and testing the six fasters whose bodies grow weaker by the day. Walking has become an arduous chore, so they lie in blankets, waiting. They wait for the meeting with the Chief Minister the collector said he would try for when he dropped by again today. They wait for that puke factor to leave their gut so they can focus on other things, like their families. They wait for something, anything that indicates that Shivraj Singh Chauhan is ready to redeem himself by agreeing to the demands set forth a year ago. They wait for a sign that today might be the last day, that they will get to go home and sleep on real beds and take real baths in real bathrooms instead of a makeshift structure curtained by blue plastic. They wait, as they have been waiting for twenty-two excruciating years.

Five o’clock arrives soon enough, but there is no news of the alleged meeting with Chauhan. Disappointment is not a new phenomenon, especially where our interaction with the Madhya Pradesh government is concerned. There is no sign of the Chief Minister, but a large ambulance truck does pull in close to our tent. All eyes are on the policemen and other personnel coming out of the vehicle. They come to our tent, and ask questions about the fasters’ health. Have you experienced dizziness? How are you feeling? The answers are short and meant to ward away the people that might want to take the fasters away forcibly. Fine. Great. There are no problems. The ambulance leaves soon enough, but a cluster of policemen remain. These messengers of the government seem to have made our tent their second home.

The tent has become a home for many people, the newest additions being two middle-aged men from Chattisgarh. They are associated with the Dalit movement there, focusing on eliminating the sexual exploitation of women. Mahendra is the more gregarious of the two; he explains how they plan to stay in Bhopal until the survivors get what they are demanding. He used to be a typist for All India Radio until 1990, when he left his job to dedicate himself to the struggle for Dalit’s rights. This story echoes the stories of Sathyu and Rachna, who also left their respective jobs to dedicate themselves to the movement of the gas-affected Bhopalis. And here they are today, on their fifth day of fasting, busy with phone calls, finding legal documents, emailing people that eagerly await every morsel of news from Bhopal. They fuel the campaign with their tremendous work ethic and dedication.

Dusk quickly sets in, and a lone light bulb dimly lights the tent. Today the police might come to clear us out of the Tinshed. Everyone scurries around, formulating their own plans of action for the night. A list of media contacts is made, people to call if a raid were to occur. Gulab Bai and Hajara Bi make a pepper powder mixture to protect themselves with. The children strategize over who will hold the policeman’s arm and who will grab his/her leg. Pull their cheeks really hard, someone says. We laugh. The six fasters put their beds together, and chain themselves to the tent. Chain link metal with locks, the whole nine yards. And then we do what we have been doing all day-we wait. More men arrive from the bastis and two people from Yuva Samwad come to spend the night. We learn new songs and sing the old ones with a warm familiarity. We dance. We drink tea to stay awake and at one thirty in the morning, most of us decide to call it a night. The police watch from a distance, but no one dares to come near us. We smile to ourselves as our eyes shut out the darkness.

Day 4 of Indefinite Fast in Bhopal

March 8, 2007

How does one begin to describe the women of Bhopal? Their motto “We are flames, not flowers” falls short of portraying their gutsy bravado. They are pillars of strength, clad in brightly-colored saris and dark burkhas. Their scalp bleeds with red vermillion and their hijabs reveal only their eyes- fierce and reflecting the strength of their soul. It was only appropriate then, that on International Women’s Day the majority of people that came to the sit-in were women.

But there is nothing new in that. For every man involved in the campaign, there must be at least thirty women who participate actively. One simply has to look at people like Rashida Bi and Champa Devi who are spearheading the campaign, at Hajara Bi and Nasreen as leaders within their communities, and at the four fasting females to see what a crucial role these “flames” play in feeding the fire of motivation amongst the gas-affected and water-contaminated communities. It is truly spectacular to see docile housewives and reclusive mothers transform into vocal, powerful speakers, striding confidently ahead of, if not right along with, their men. The women of Bhopal are an inspiration to campaign supporters worldwide as shining beacons of perseverance.

While these women and others commemorated the seventeenth day at the Tinshed, Shivraj Singh Chauhan was commemorating Women’s Day in a plush auditorium, distributing sweets in honor of his birthday which was yesterday. That’s Madhya Pradesh’s Chief Minister for you - he celebrates his life while others mourn the loss of their loved ones. Death is inevitable, we know that. But when fifteen to twenty people are dying prematurely due to exposure related illnesses, that is when you know something is seriously wrong.

Twenty-two years after the world’s worst industrial disaster took place, death is still a frequent visitor at the doorstep of gassed homes, while the women who run these homes fight for the right to live. The Tinshed was bubbling with activity on this Women’s Day; seven organizations- Eklavya, Yuva Samvad, Muskan, Mahila Manch, IWID, Bhopal Gas Peedit Sangharsh Sanhyog Samiti, and a group of nuns from a local Bhopal church - came to offer their support to the protestors. Songs of hope and triumph were sung, the government was bombarded with stinging insults, and words of justice were eloquently articulated by representatives from each of the organizations. The highlight of the evening was a torchlight procession from the Tinshed to Roshanpura, the site where our protest first began seventeen days ago. As one walked between the two lines of burning torches, candles, and cardboard placards one slogan melded into another. It was a cacophonous symphony of enthusiasm and anger, merged into one voice that rang through the streets of New Market. From the adolescent girls holding the banner at the head of the procession to the lady in white who walked at the tail end cradling her broken arm, it was the women who dominated the march. Tired and worn out from the walking and screaming, we arrived back at the dharna site thinking the day had come to an end. We thought wrong.

No one expected the Collector of Bhopal to show up, but within five minutes of being notified of his arrival, three Ambassadors lined the curb of the road below us along with a police jeep. For about an hour, the Collector, S.K. Mishra, the Superintendent of Police, Anant Kumar Singh, and their posse of five other men and eight policemen sat on the ground with us, warding off mosquitoes and squirming on our oh-so-luxurious thin sheets. Many a time, Mr. Mishra would state something that Rachna or Sathyu would immediately refute with legal or official evidence, and Mr. Mishra would cite it as a “communication gap.” He answered the phone thrice in the middle of discussion, but was otherwise fairly decent in his demeanor throughout the meeting. Sit with us for a few hours, Sathyu said, and we will convince you why our demands are valid. The Collector replied with a nonchalant Sure, I’ll ask important person X, Y, and Z to come too. But tomorrow is Rang Panchmi and then there’s the weekend. Plus it will take us a few days to find the documents we need and contact the appropriate people…If you ever want to learn how to evade responsibility from six fasters who are a total of twenty-one kilograms lighter and thousands of others who are waiting for clean water, ask S.K. Mishra. His we-will-take-care-of-it-later spirit is bound to warm your heart.

Day 3 of Indefinite Fast in Bhopal

March 7, 2007
Day 16 of Sit In
Day 3 of Indefinite Fast

When asked why he brings the police with him during check-ups, Dr. Praday says it is for our own protection. “Look,” he explains, “you are going on a hunger strike against the government. But this government wants to make sure you are safe and your life isn’t in danger. I haven’t brought the police here- they have brought me to make sure your people are okay.” So no life is in danger? According to Dr. Praday, “not at all.” The presence of ketone bodies in the blood of Shehzadi Bi, Guddi Bi, Sathyu, and Rachna speak otherwise.

Low blood glucose levels are the least of their worries. Policemen stop by multiple times to deliver notices from politicians. These khaki-clad men and women are messengers from the government, puppets of bureaucratic hypocrisy. Instead of protecting the people that need them, they guard the ones that feed them. Babulal Gaur would like to meet with you. You mean the minister in-charge of gas relief? This is the man on whose wrists rakhis were tied by women survivors. Fulfill your duty as our brother; give us clean water. Protect us. He promised he would. Three months later these women went to his house to ask why he hadn’t kept his promise, and he filed criminal cases against them. This is the man we made our brother. This is the man that supposedly wants to help us. Babulal Gaur, you have shown your true colors to the women of Bhopal; the only thing you are good for is making false promises.

Meanwhile, it is Day 3 of the indefinite fast. People are keeping their spirits high while the fasters’ faces have assumed a sallow complexion due to lack of nutrient intake. In the past three days, the six fasters have lost a total of thirteen kilograms of weight. Their blood sugar levels have decreased from 11 mg/dl to 34 mg/dl. Normal blood sugar should fall in the range of 75-120 mg/dl, yet some fasters’ levels have alarmingly dropped to the mid-60s. Their stomachs scream for food, while their hearts beat even louder for justice.

Their demands reverberate not only at the Tinshed, but on the streets of Old Bhopal as well. A procession of women marches down to the congested Bus Stand. Clean water, pension, employment, proper medical care, containment of poisonous waste…How many times must they voice their needs before someone hears them? The women angrily burn down an effigy of Shivraj Singh Chauhan; the dry straw greedily licks the flames as the effigy falls on the road. These women deserve the right to live- for themselves and for the ones they care for.

Shehzadi Bi wants to live for her family, for her children and grandchildren that shower her with love during their visit. Her granddaughter, Rehnuma, glues herself to Shehzadi’s bosom for three hours while Shehzadi’s daughter-in-law helps prepare dinner. When it is time to go, Rehnuma does not want to leaver her grandmother’s presence; after much cajoling she is carried away. Rehnuma bawls loudly, shedding tears by the cupful as she walks away, turning her head often to see her grandmother looking back at her. Shehzadi Bi’s eyes are overflowing with sadness, asking the question that plagues everyone’s mind- when will it all end?

The answer lies in the hands of those who have been elected time and time again. Now it’s time for them to put their decision-making powers to good use. At last, there is a lukewarm response from the government- not from Chauhan, but from Ram Vilas Paswan whom the Bhopalis met in Bombay while protesting at the IndiaChem 2006 conference. The Minister of Chemicals and Fertilizers and Steel tells Sathyu that he will call the Chief Secretary of Madhya Pradesh, R.C. Sahani. He also promises to call the Prime Minster, Manmohan Singh. He mentions that the Secretary and Joint Secretary of the Ministry of Chemicals are also frustrated with the Madhya Pradesh government’s refusal to be reasonable. People in high places are claiming they will help us; it is only a step towards the goal we strive for- getting Shivraj Singh Chauhan to give us what every human being should have.

This goal was never an easy one, but with the support of people throughout the world, it is definitely more of a reality than it was yesterday. Five hundred and ninety-one faxes sent and counting…Calls are being received from people thousands of miles away as supporters refuse to forget the tragedy of 1984. Thousands lost their lives, and a few survived to tell the tale of unspeakable horror. Why can’t the Madhya Pradesh government cooperate and heed their pleas? That is the million-dollar-question we are looking at Mr. Chauhan to answer.

Day 2 of Indefinite Fast in Bhopal

March 6, 2007

When the body is not being provided with food, it goes through various lines of defense in order to stay alive. The body stores glucose -its primary fuel - in the form of glycogen in the liver. When the carbohydrates from a meal are digested, the liver converts the stored glycogen back into glucose and releases it into the blood. Once the liver runs out of its 12-hour supply of glycogen, it produces glucose from amino acids, the building blocks of muscle. Fat begins to break down and is released into the bloodstream as fatty acids. These fatty acids in the blood are then used to make ketone bodies. The brain is completely dependent on glucose for its energy, but in the event of low blood glucose levels, it uses ketone bodies for energy. The longer the period of starvation, the more ketone bodies are used…that is, until the body’s pH becomes dangerously acidic and reaches a state of ketoacidosis. In a nutshell, fasting results in the loss of fat, loss of muscle, and loss of energy to perform well mentally as well as physically.

The six fasters are still fairly active – not much has changed in their behavior except that there is more resting during the day. One can tell that the energy is lower, but the morale is higher than ever. Events are being planned for the upcoming week to put further pressure on the Madhya Pradesh government. People are taking the initiative to help the cause in any way they can; some are fanning the napping fasters with folded newspaper, warding off the heat along with the buzzing flies. Some are massaging tired heads with soothing oil, while others chop potatoes, knead dough, and cook the puffed-to-perfection chapattis on the makeshift stove put together with dry wood. It is small acts like these which make the Tinshed a functioning unit. Division of responsibility combined with the rotation of duties makes the sit-in site a relatively tension-free environment.

The reality of course, is that there is an unbearable amount of tension present, especially when you think about why we have been sitting here for fifteen days now. It has become a matter of life and death not only for the six individuals on the indefinite fast, but also for the hundreds of thousands who are dying a slow, painful death only because they use the water in their communities to drink, bathe, and cook. Water is supposed to give life, not take it away. And yet that is what the contaminated water saturated with Union Carbide’s poisons is doing- killing people from the inside out.

Shivraj Singh Chauhan is tesing the survivors’ strength, trying to break their spirit. He ignores every word they scream out to him. He looks the other way when the living dead lie before him. He lies incessantly when praising his supposed efforts in helping the downtrodden. Hi is pushing the limits of their determination. But instead of weakening the survivors, it is only strengthen their resolve.

To ensure that the fasters are in stable condition, Dr. Shyam Aggarwal comes everyday to measure their blood pressure, weight, pulse, blood sugar levels and ketone body levels. Crumpled cotton and tiny syringes lie used in small plastic cups after each checkup. The tent is starting to smell like a medical ward in the evenings. Before Dr. Aggarwal had arrived today, a doctor accompanied by a policeman showed up to measure the conditions of the fasters. Look at how caring our government has become, sending policemen and doctors to monitor the progress of those who are surviving only on water. Shivraj Singh Chauhan, your people are too kind. Now if only they could provide doctors to people at all times, maybe these six people wouldn’t have to fast indefinitely in the first place.

Day 1 of Indefinite Fast in Bhopal- Meet the 6 Fasters

March 5, 2007


SHEHZADI BI
Her mehndi-colored hair matches her feisty personality. But there was a time when her locks weren't a rusty orange, but a rich black instead. Shehzadi Bi spent her younger days in Bidisha Dilla, one of four children in a farming community. Her fondest memories as a child are of playing with her dolls. Education was never important in the family, so she did not learn how to read or write. Before she came to Bhopal Shehzadi Bi used to make a living by sewing and rolling beedis. It wasn't until 1982 that her marriage let her to the city she would now call home.

She remembers that night like a haunting nightmare that won't go away."It was 12:30 am. We were sleeping in a rented room at Kazi Camp when the stench of burning chilies stung our nostrils. All I remember is that I was losing consciousness while running. I was dumped into a truck. When I regained consciousness, I saw that vomit and other bodily fluids had soiled my clothes. It was then that I realized that they were my own."

She had four children at the time of the gas disaster and has had two more since that time. Her son who was six at the time has now developed a cancer in his leg that had to be operated on. One of her daughters became blind and has to hear the all-too-frequent complaints of her in-laws: we got stuck with a blind daughter-in-law. Shehzadi's husband was diagnosed with tuberculosis. Everyone suffers from breathlessness, while the females are plagued with menstrual problems. Shehzadi Bi currently lives in Blue Moon Colony where she bought a flat. Little did she know it is a water-contaminated community. The water is dripping with poisons like lead, mercury, and chloroform- substances that should not be ingested-yet her family was forced to drink it until the water tanks with clean water were put into her community. Do they think about moving out of that area into one where water safety is not an issue? "How can we even think about moving to another place when we don't have the money for it? Only when we have the means can we hope to see such dreams."

"I fasted on the Padyatra to New Delhi in 2006. That lasted for seven days." Weakness is inevitable, but Shehzadi Bi has prepared herself for anything that may come her way. Losing her life, for example. "If my death saves another six lakh people from dying, then it's worth it."
***

GUDDI BI

She was married off at the tender age of twelve. It was then that she had to leave her three sisters, one brother, and the mother that single-handedly raised all five of them in Pathari. Her husband died eleven years after their marriage, and Guddi Bi became the person her mother used to be, raising her three children on her own.

She came to Bhopal three years ago, looking for work, and settled in Blue Moon colony, a water-contaminated community. Guddi Bi does not know what it was like to live through the gas disaster. She was lucky that way. But she sees what the gas has done to the people around her, like the children who are born with enlarged heads and deformed limbs. Ever since she has moved to Bhopal, she has her own problems to deal with. It started with coughing and skin rashes, and the water continued to create a whole new set of difficulties. Her nineteen year old son is unfit to work due to weakness. Similarly, her youngest son suffers from the poisons; "One time he drank the water and blood came out of his mouth." Her daughter experiences a host of gynecological problems, like white discharge and excessive cramps. Stomach aches are normal now. Guddi Bi struggles to survive by selling what she can find in junkyards heaped with trash. Why not go back to a land that's not polluted with poisons? "Someone's got to earn for the family, and you can do that in Bhopal. We can't go back." Despite her fairly recent arrival in Bhopal, Guddi Bi has immersed herself in the Bhopalis' struggle for justice. She went on the march to New Delhi last year with her son. Now she is going on an indefinite fast.
***

JABBAR KHAN
"My father worked in the Railway Service, and I followed in his footsteps for three years. Then I decided I want to do something on my own." An only child, a lot was expected from Jabbar as the sole male of the family. He wanted to open a tea stall, which he ran successfully. He smiles as he recalls the day he got married to Nafisa: June 15, 1984. Six months later, his life would change forever.

Eyes stinging. Vomit. Running frantically in any direction. We've heard it a thousand times before, yet it hurts every time. Jabbar and Nafisa stayed at the train station for two days and then took the train to Beena. Three years later, they returned to Bhopal and made Gupta Nagar, a water-contaminated community, their new home. It is a water-contaminated area which has taken its toll on Jabbar and his family. In 2003, Jabbar's blood pressure was sky high; at one point his heart stopped. His five children, aged nine to nineteen, suffer from stomach aches and regular fevers.

Despite the anguish he lives with, Jabbar has dreams of his own. After his father passed away, he discovered his passion for cooking. "My favorite food of all time would have to be Gajar-Matar Sabji," he says with glittering eyes. He wants to open a dhaba, "the kind they have on roadsides." He has even thought of a name. "We'll name it after my youngest daughter, Yasmeen."
***

RASHIDA BI
Her life has been a series of one struggle after another. For Rashida Bi, going hungry is nothing new. "My father was always sick. We had to send him to Indore for treatment, but we couldn't afford the train ticket. Sometimes we wouldn't get anything to eat for two, maybe three days. One day when he was on the train, he died. Just like that."

Born in Suhagpur, Rashida Bi was the eldest of seven children. "My parents didn't believe in educating us at a school, so they only taught me how to read Urdu, not write it." She was married at thirteen, and rolled beedis for a living, trying to support herself since her mentally sick husband couldn't. "He would leave randomly, sometimes for years, and then come back and not remember anything. He left while I was pregnant with our son, and came back after our boy died from pneumonia." Her son was seven days old. Her mother-in-law would not let her eat until she rolled four thousand beedis; one thousand beedis gave her two rupees. That was life before December 2, 1984 happened.

"We couldn't walk for more than half a kilometer. Our eyes were swelling, we could hardly open them. Even if we did open them all we saw was corpses. Tons of dead bodies. It was better to keep our eyes closed. Bodies were dumped by the truckload into the Narmada River. People thought to be dead were burnt, only to start flailing in pain. When we went to the hospitals to find our missing relatives, the families were being given Rs. 10,000 per death. We refused the money; what would we do with it if we did not have those we cared for?"

Those that she cared for suffered the wrath of the gas. Her father, two sisters, and her sister-in-law died due to cancer. Her husband could no longer use his arms and legs. After six months in Suhagpur post-gas leak, Rashida Bi came back to Bhopal to find work. She signed up for the tailoring jobs the government was providing, but after a three month training and work for a few more months, she was told that the work was not needed anymore. After another bout of unemployment, she started working at a government-sponsored stationery unit. At the end of the month, she received six rupees. "Six rupees for a month of work? We should have gotten at least a hundred and fifty rupees. The anger I felt that day is still in me." It is that anger that has fueled Rashida Bi's motivation to do all that she has done. A leader of the Bhopal Gas Peedit Mahila Stationery Karamchari Sangh, she is fighting to ensure that the gas-affected women get the same salary and employment benefits as their peers at the government stationary unit. In 2004, she and Champa Devi won the Goldman Environmental Prize for their environmental activism in Bhopal. She is also one of the Managing Trustees of the Chingari Trust which provides medical treatment to chidren with congenital deformities as a result of the gas and contaminated ground. "We aren't asking for much, just the right to live a decent life," she says about the current campaign. This will be her fourth hunger strike. "We are ready to lose our lives. Maybe the government will open its eyes with our deaths."
***

RACHNA DHINGRA

Rachna Dhingra is originally from Delhi, and was just six years old when the world's worst industrial disaster struck Bhopal in 1984. She was 14 when she moved to the US with her mother and later joined a student group that took up the issue of the Bhopal gas disaster. Rachna graduated with a business degree in 2000 and came back to stay in Bhopal in January 2003. Now she is associated with the Bhopal Group of Information and Action. What is interesting is that before coming to India she was associated with Dow Chemical, the parent company of Union Carbide Corporation. It was the UCC factory in Bhopal from where methyl isocyanate gas leaked, killing thousands. "Dow was a client of the company I worked for," says the computer consultant.

"I love what I am doing. For me it is not a sacrifice but something that helps me sleep better at night without any regret. What angers me most is that even 21 years after the disaster, the government can allow people to drink contaminated water. Every person is moved by something in his or her life. For me it was the fact that the company I was working for was more concerned about profits than lives of the people. Twenty-two years is a long time to wait for justice but I am hopeful that eventually everyone will get justice."
[taken from http://www.tribuneindia.com/2006/20060506/saturday/main1.htm ]
***

SATINATH SARANGI
Satinath Sarangi is a metallurgical engineer-turned-activist who arrived in Bhopal the day after the disaster when he was 30, and stayed on to become a key figure in the Bhopal struggle along with survivor activists. "When I compare myself with my friends who were there with me in engineering, I find myself much happier. It is the spirit of the people I have been working with that has made me go on. Looking back, I would not like my life to shape up in any other way. The Sambhavna Trust Clinic, where I work, is funded by individuals. We do not take money from foundations like Ford or Rockfeller, which give huge amounts. To earn a living, I have worked as a feature writer and also as a contract labourer in a paper board mill".
[taken from http://www.tribuneindia.com/2006/20060506/saturday/main1.htm ]
***

The Sit-In Against the MP Govt- Day 13

March 4, 2007

If yesterday was a die-in, then today is a resurrection. The day begins with a glorious lunar eclipse, a spectacle that lasts for three hours. A new moon, a new day, a new season. There is a fresh enthusiasm on this Holi, the Hindu festival celebrating the arrival of spring. From the dharna site we can see people collecting ashes from last night’s bonfire. After cooling, the ash would be used as manure and insect repellant in their small gardens. The gardens are about to spurt new leaves and flowers. Fresh life. Fresh hope.

Today, Bhopal is a rainbow. Children position themselves strategically on rooftops, aiming at the passerbys below who are unaware of what awaits them. The skin of every man, woman, and child is drenched in deep magentas, pale yellows, and glistening reds. Hindu or Muslim, white or black, all differences are washed away by the colored water squirted on friends, family, even strangers. Holi is the festival of love, where affection is smeared generously on cheeks and ruffled into hair.

While the rest of Bhopal immerses itself into a myriad of brightness, the survivors at the Tinshed choose a grim black to “celebrate” their Holi with. Unlike the plum purples and parrot greens that grace the faces of the blissfully ignorant, the protestors’ faces shine darkly with a simple message sprawled across each black forehead. Proper medical care. Pension. Economic rehabilitation. Toxic containment; there is nothing Shivraj Singh Chauhan hasn’t heard for over a year now, and yet he continues to live each day with apathetic negligence.

After a day of Black Holi, the coal-colored faces of the survivors are washed to reveal the scrubbed-to-rawness skin underneath. But the darkness from their daily suffering can not be scrubbed off that easily. Color will return to their lives only when the Madhya Pradesh government fulfils its duty towards those that have awaited justice for far too long.

In the meantime, happiness comes from the simple pleasures of life. Like jump roping with the thick jute leftover from anchoring the tent. Happiness comes from singing the songs of struggle and strength we know so well by now. It comes from playing Antakshari with young Lakshmi even if physical fatigue overtakes the body. After all, fatigue is momentary; it will go away in a few hours. The pain from losing a parent, a child, or a friend due to Union Carbide’s poisons is not something that a good night’s sleep will cure. It is something more permanent, and can only be lessened when the survivors see that the criminals responsible for these deaths are given what they deserve.

The Sit-In Against the MP Govt- Day 12

March 3, 2007

12:30
Eighty men and women lie on the burning asphalt under the midday sun, covered in white sheets. The entrance to Chief Minister Chauhan's house is completely blocked by the living dead blanketed in shrouds. The police are present in hordes, holding their lathis and guns against their starched uniforms stripped of all integrity. Punabai can't stop talking about what she saw peeking from under her white sheet. "There were so many of us, and the police kept threatening to beat us. So beat us, we said. We did nothing wrong."

1:30 pm
The police have had enough of the non-violent protesting. So they proceed to do what they do best - charge the innocent with crimes they did not commit. While the media is in full force, seven of the protestors are arrested: Rashida Bi, Rachna, Vikas, Guddi Bi, Shehzadi Bi, Irfan Bhai, and Mehfuz Bhai. Three men and four women are taken away on grounds of "breaking peace." The survivors are correct when they say the government hides behind the khaki uniforms of the cops.

2:15 pm
A busful of policemen and policewomen arrive at the Tinshed, watching the slogan shouting from a distance. The air is thick with tension. The truck driver that brought the Bhopalis here is kicked off his vehicle. The police drive away with two of the trucks.

3:15 pm
The seven individuals that were arrested have been released and are on their way to the dharna site. A jubilant unison of cheers breaks out at the tent. Good news travels fast.

4 pm
A truckful of police is still lounging about behind the tent that is buzzing with anticipation. The demands are being voiced loud and clear while press releases and notifications are being sent with the utmost urgency. Delhi has heard us; Bhopal, now it's your turn. Manmohan has heard us; Shivraj, now it's your turn.

5:30 pm
"They’re coming! They’re here!" The excited masses get up to see what the commotion is about. Seven figures are walking toward us from a distance, chanting the slogans we now hear in our dreams. "Ladenge! Jeetenge!" We will fight. We will win. There is much to rejoice over today- the media has given the die-in a tremendous amount of exposure. The police couldn’t touch us at the Tinshed even though they wanted to, due to the immense number of people present. The immediate global response to the seven arrests was yet another reason to celebrate. Calls from all over the world poured in at the police station where the arrested were being held and new email discussions sprung up by the minute. Supporters around the world, don’t you ever sleep?

8 pm
There was much to talk about. Discussions and stories spill out spontaneously and conversations are in full flow. So much happened today, people still haven't caught their breath. Despite the exhaustion that is setting in, so much more needs to be done. Press releases are being delivered throughout Bhopal on over-used two-wheelers. Usually the media gets its fill of dharna activity during the day, but a Hindi news station decides to pay us a visit after dark. Rashida Bi tells them what she has been saying for twelve days now: "We will fight till our last breath. Shivraj Singh Chauhan, wake up!"

The Sit-In Against the MP Govt- Day 11

March 2, 2007

Government spending on economic rehabilitation of the gas survivors: Rs. 60 crores.
Government spending on training the survivors in sixteen trades: Rs. 11 crores.
Government spending on building one hundred and fifty-two work sheds to employ ten thousand people: Rs. 8 crores.
The survivors doing an indefinite sit-in demanding that these ten thousand actually be put to work instead of the meager seventy-nine that are currently employed: priceless.

There are some things money can buy; Food, clothing, jobs...that is, if you have money. Count on the Madhya Pradesh government to provide you with your daily dosage of disappointment.

Yes, they have disappointed us time and time again. So we though we'd let a few people know by holding a press conference highlighting the dire need for economic rehabilitation of the gas survivors. In fact, there was a time when 2300 gas-affected women were given jobs by the government. Hajra Bi was one of the lucky ones who sewed pants and shirts for school children. “The two hundred rupees wasn’t a lot, but it kept your stomachs full and our families happy,” she reminisces. In 1992, S.K. Guru decided to relocate the garment factory to another city. No reason was cited, nothing was thought of the thousands who would lose their family-sustaining income. For two obstacle-ridden years Hajra Bi fought along with her fellow women. They fought until the government heard their outcry, only to spit it back in their faces. How can one possibly justify snatching the livelihoods of those who had already lost so much? It is an inexcusable crime for which our government is responsible.

That was 1993. Fourteen years later, the women somehow manage to keep afloat on their meager savings. Some roll beedis while others sell wood. Many are too old to work, their brittle bones incapable of physical exertion. Some scrounge for plastic products in junkyards while others repair plastic sacks to earn fifty paise per bag. One hundred paise make one rupee. Forty-five rupees equal one dollar. You do the math.

The seventy-nine individuals that do have jobs don’t have it much better. For twenty long years, the women of the Bhopal Gas Peedit Mahila Stationery Karamchari Sangh (Bhopal Gas Affected Women's Stationery Workers' Union) have been struggling as victims of blatant discrimination. They make the same brown envelopes their counterparts at the government printing press do, yet they are given only Rs. 2000 per month while the permanent employees are recipients of Rs. 7000. Why does the government refuse to recognize them as permanent workers? When the time comes to justify their actions, the people in power become mute.

This is what the lives of the survivors have come down to – living from one measly earning to the next. Even though the situation appears hopeless, these spirited women refuse to be defeated. “Bhopal ki jo nari hai, Phool nahin chingari hai!” has become a trademark in the campaign, a symbol of strength. We are flames, not flowers. We have fought for twenty-two years, and will continue fighting all our lives, even if it takes every ounce of energy out of us, even if we go hungry, even if we lose everything we hold dear. But the one thing we’ll never lose is hope- hope for a brighter tomorrow, for clean water and stable jobs, for the long-awaited justice that one day will prevail.

The Sit-In Against the MP Govt- Day 10

March 1, 2007

What have we accomplished in the last ten days?

For one, the microphone has been put out of its coma and is working again. We can be sure now that our voices won’t go unheard. The typical turnout has consisted mostly of women, but today a substantial number of fathers and sons are visible. The tent is bustling with activity as sixty people crowd the carpets and spill out into the cooking area. Mothers are forcing mouthfuls of scalding chai down their children’s throats. Young men are smoking their rolled beedies while others are projecting betel juice across the road. Women are chopping vegetables by the large cauldron steaming with the flavors of sliced carrots, diced garlics, and chunks of cauliflower that are being plunked one by one into the boiling concoction below. The singing that is usually reserved for post-dinner relaxation gets an early start. “Tumhari kacheri gherenge, Savdhan ho jaiye!” That’s right, Mr. Policeman, we’ll put you in the jail you throw our people in. Don’t say we didn’t warn you.

Not only is the Tinshed in full swing on this fine evening, the street below seems to be busier as well. A scooter stops in front of our tent, and its driver spends a few minutes reading our display before speeding off. A pedestrian slows down as he passes our dharna, staring intently. Even one of the policemen from across the street mustered the courage to take a stroll on our side of the road and actually read the boards that have always invited inquiring eyes. Of all the policemen that have been lounging around for ten days, he is the first one that bothered to be semi-interested in what we were doing rather than looking for signs of trouble. The two men that walk their dog in the morning have changed their route to circle our tent before heading back. People are finally noticing us as a constant presence. It’s about time.

Part of the publicity we have received is credited to the media, newspapers in particular. In the past week, twenty-three articles and/or pictures have graced the pages of both local and national newspapers. That averages out to more than three articles daily, which is tremendous yet unfortunately inadequate to get a response from the Madhya Pradesh government.

In addition to media support, we have a new member who spends twenty-four hours at the Tinshed. We call him Johnny Lever, named after the Bollywood King of Comedy. Initially, he wasn’t welcome in our tent but his doe eyes and playful nature have won a few hearts. Yesterday night he was even given a bed sheet to sleep under. I can’t imagine how thrilled Shivraj Singh Chauhan would be to know that a puppy is the newest addition to the Right to Life Campaign.

What have we accomplished in the last ten days? It is a question that can not be answered in a few sentences. Nor can it be described by detailing each event of every hour. We can only look at each moment’s successes and tribulations, and decide for ourselves what the past ten days have led to.