Here I am...

Day 15 of Indefinite Fast in Bhopal

2007-03-25T04:47:00.000-07:00

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

2007-03-18T22:17:00.001-07:00

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

2007-03-17T23:24:00.000-07:00

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

2007-03-17T03:55:00.000-07:00

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

2007-03-15T22:26:00.000-07:00

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

2007-03-14T23:35:00.001-07:00

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

2007-03-13T22:18:00.000-07:00

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

2007-03-12T23:46:00.000-07:00

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

2007-03-11T23:33:00.000-07:00

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

2007-03-10T21:31:00.000-08:00

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

2007-03-09T21:12:00.000-08:00

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

2007-03-08T21:06:00.000-08:00

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

2007-03-07T21:29:00.000-08:00

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

2007-03-06T23:05:00.000-08:00

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

2007-03-06T02:15:00.000-08:00

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

2007-03-04T20:22:00.000-08:00

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

2007-03-03T21:37:00.000-08:00

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

2007-03-02T20:49:00.000-08:00

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

2007-03-01T20:51:00.000-08:00

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.

The Sit-In Against the MP Govt- Day 9

2007-02-28T22:48:00.001-08:00

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

2007-02-27T22:00:00.000-08:00

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

2007-02-27T02:10:00.000-08:00

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

2007-02-27T01:41:00.000-08:00

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

2007-02-25T23:29:00.000-08:00

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

2007-02-24T01:15:00.000-08:00

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

2007-02-22T23:16:00.000-08:00

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

2007-02-22T20:25:00.000-08:00

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

2007-02-20T23:33:00.000-08:00

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.

2007-02-18T04:44:00.000-08:00

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

2007-02-12T07:53:00.000-08:00

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

2007-02-09T04:42:00.000-08:00

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?

India Poised

2007-01-29T03:49:00.001-08:00

After two weddings bursting with food, dance, and contagious viral infections, I would say my trip to Delhi was a success. Thankfully, I have recovered from the madness that ensued for ten days, and save for the henna on my hands (its fading and starting to look quite sickly now), you would have never known that I was sleep-deprived and high on oil saturated carbs for ten days of wedding madness.

I came back to Bhopal on January 26, India's Republic Day. Like the calm background music played in restaurants, patriotic tunes made their presence subtly known through the train's speakers. I smiled to myself - Yeh Desh Hai Veer Jawano Ka does not do well as an instrumental lullaby. The day before, Shah Rukh Khan sang the Indian National Anthem on Kaun Banega Crorepati, India's version of Who Wants to Be a Millionaire. The show's old host, Amitabh Bachan, was not to be left behind in expressing his love for his country. Oh no, he was a step above the rest. Collaborating with the Times of India, he is marketing Indian pride through the six-week long "India Poised" campaign. You can watch the video at http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=MiItWDN2Cs8&eurl=.

The first time I watched Mr. Bachan's eloquent monologue I felt proud, and excitedly showed the video clip to another volunteer at the clinic. Her response was not as enthused. How could such a well-made video receive anything but praise, I thought. I soon saw why.

The video starts off with the following statement:
"There are two Indians in this country.
One India is straining at the leash, eager to spring forth and live up to all the adjectives that the world has been recently showering upon us.
The other India is the leash....
...One India wants. The other India hopes.
One India leads. The other India follows.
But conversions are on the rise. With each passing day more and more people from the other India have been coming over to this side.
And quietly, while the world is not looking, a pulsating, dynamic new India is emerging.
An India whose faith in success is far greater that its fear of failure.
An India that no longer boycotts foreign-made goods but buys out the companies that make them instead.
History, they say, is a bad motorist. It rarely ever signals its intentions when taking a turn.
This is that rarely-ever moment. History is turning a page."

Poetic.

I know of the India Mr. Bachan talks about. An India that's changing, that's benefiting people like me. Yes, people like me- a satiated, educated, money-driven but content middle class that doesn't need to boycott goods. Because let's face it, we're not drinking water laced with mercury and lead. Our children are not being born with cleft-palates and deformed lungs. Our daughters don't have to worry about ostracization due to the status of 'gas-victim'. No, we don't need to boycott Tata products, because Tata is buying out companies like Dow- the same Dow that is legally responsible for cleaning up a factory still rotting in its toxic grave. But that's okay, because buying out companies is a good thing, right? We're showing them. Look at us! Who's the boss now?

I am proud to call myself an Indian citizen, and my heart swells with joy every time I hear the Indian National Anthem. Yet living in Bhopal, feeling both the pain and the passion of the people, I am ashamed of those of us who conveniently forget this part of India when priding ourselves on the progress our country is making. India has made great strides, but running ahead does not entail leaving your people behind, especially those people whose voice is not being heard.

India might be changing, Mr. Bachan, but some things still haven't changed.

Time For a Real Update

2007-01-13T05:20:00.000-08:00

Today is the....13th? How does that happen? You wake up one fine morning and bam! Three days have gone by. If a time machine has been invented yet can someone please tell me? I'd like to remember what I did two days ago.

Oh, right...there was another health camp at the Chinghari Trust. Last time the health camp had been for children with congenital defects, and doctors from Delhi had come to see who would qualify for plastic surgery and other operations at their hospitals in the capital. A list is being compiled of the families that are going to go to Delhi, and they will be sent as a group. This time, the doctors were from local hospitals, and I saw many new pre-adolescent faces. There was this one boy, eleven or twelve I'm guessing. The left side of his face was flattened as if someone had ironed out the cheekbone, eye, and ear. But he was just as mischievous as any other pubescent male. After I'd let one of the patients in to see the doctor (that was my job, calling out names and sending kids in), I'd see him on the stairs, grinning in that conniving way that young boys do. And we'd stick our tongues out at each other, competing for who did it first. Maybe its my slow reflexes delayed by twenty-two exruciating years of tongue-sticking-outs. Maybe he was more prepared. Whatever it was, he won ninety percent of the time. It really wasn't fair, because he would wait for us to make eye contact, and then do it immediately afterwards....Whatever, I'm not bitter. Heck, who am I kidding. Let's just say losing to an eleven year old wasn't good for my inflated ego.

Seriously, it was a blast hanging out with the kids, playing ball, consoling them that no, they would not get needles stuck into their butts. Just smiling at them and seeing them light up as they smiled back was worth the painstaking effort it took to stretch my mouth after standing/walking/climbing stairs for seven hours, four of which were spent thinking about food. When our meal of namkeen, samosas, mithai, a banana, and poha was served I gorged it all down within minutes. Back to the children- they are amazing individuals that manage to laugh despite the pain that they are going through, physically and emotionally. I respect them a great deal for the courage they have.

Yesterday was another jam-packed day, spent protesting at the Tata office in Bhopal. Before you get on my case on how Tata is this wonderful corporation that has done nothing but good deeds for progressive Indians everywhere, hear me out. Even better, hear what the Indian Express has to say:

"In a first-of-its-kind corporate move, Tata group chairman Ratan Tata has volunteered his services to the UPA government for “remediation” of the Bhopal gas tragedy site to pave the way for Dow Chemicals, now the majority stakeholder of Union Carbide Ltd, to invest in India."

So Tata wants to clean up the factory so Dow can invest in India. The same Dow that has run away from its criminal liabilities for years. We're talking about the multi-billion dollar corporation that is afraid to invest in India, afraid because of the fight the Bhopalis have so admirably been fighting for twenty-two long years. So how does Dow get itself out of the nasty mess it has gotten itself into? Getting an Indian corporation to do the dirty work, of course. How convenient.

Mr. Tata, before you decide to clean up someone else's mess, how about cleaning up Sukhinda, Orissa, Patancheru, Andhra Pradesh, Mithapur, Gujarat, Jamshedpur, and West Bokaro in Jharkhand? You know, where your factories are.

You can visit http://www.bhopal.net/blog_pr/ if you are interested in getting more information. Or just ask our friend, Mr. Google. Me? I'm boycotting Tata salt and tea. But I don't even drink chai, so that won't be too hard.

You Are Right. You Always Were.

2007-01-05T06:45:00.000-08:00

You don't sit in their air-conditioned cars
You wash them as they smirk in disgust
Yes, your clothes are torn
But while yours collect dust you wash their silks
Their velvets, cashmeres, their Egyptian cottons
Your children may not go to school together
I saw them today
His daughter in the back, your son in front of her
Pedalling vigorously to the market

You are right.
You always were.

They didn't believe you, or maybe they closed their eyes
Maybe they looked the other way because it was easier
Easier than accepting the harsh thorn-studded reality
Maybe they were part of the parasitic ladder
Leeches sucking power off of one another
Sucking greedily until the only thing that remained
on their brittle bones was leathery sallow skin
Held under a conscientious light it would show one word
Letters awkwardly clogging every pore, spelling "TRAITOR"

Don't let them sway you
Make you think it's a mistake
An ignorant slip by an anonymous perpetrator
Look in their eyes, blank, cold, hard
They refuse to see you exist
Let them hear your scream
Let them to see your tears
Let them touch your unhealing wounds
They'll never know of the ones inside
In fairy tales the wrongdoer is punished
Always
Life may not be twenty pages long
But justice is not a fantasy
It exists, I promise you
You are not a king but you have power
There are no wishes in this story
There are demands
There are the villians
And you are the heroes
Heroes always win.

You are right.
You always were.

Metacognition

2007-01-03T04:27:00.000-08:00

It's begun. You know, 2007. I spent my last hours of 2006 dancing to pulsating remixes at a Bombay disco. And then the clock struck midnight. And nothing happened.

If you ask me- not that you did, but I'll tell you anyways- New Year's is overrated. Other holidays I can understand. Diwali has religious importance, Gandhi Jayanti celebrates the life of a great soul, even Groundhog Day is seasonally significant. But what is New Year's really? The beginning of another day, just like every other day. Except it becomes a cause for celebration because the year is changing, though we don't celebrate the beginning of every month, every day, every hour. A year gone by is a year to reminisce about, another three hundred and sixty-five days worth of time that has become the past in a neatly packaged unit called '2006'.

Look back- what have you accomplished? I can only speak for myself. Pragya Bhagat obtained a piece of paper known as a degree, which basically says I spent four years of my life slodging so that I could move on to Level 2-eight additional years slodging in medical school. Then I came to Bhopal, probably the best decision I've made in a while. But even here, I do what is required, taking interest in my work and learning from it, going out every once in a while to venture out and explore bits and pieces of India or visit family in Delhi. But I come once again to the question: What have I really accomplished? I can't claim to be a chess grandmaster whose prodigy skills were discovered at age five, nor can I recite all the countries and their capitals listed on the atlas like those children India Abroad loves to do full page profiles on. I am not a sports champion, and the only reason my name has appeared in the paper was because I was one of hundreds of students whose name was listed in microscopic print as a recipient of some award I can't even remember the name of. So really, another year has gone by and I haven't accomplished anything. I've made decisions, both good and bad. I've reached certain conclusions that aren't supposed to be stark realizations, but have come to be my truths, such as

1) Being twenty-two isn't really all that different from being twenty-one, except you start counting down the years until thirty, and who knows what you look forward to then (*joke* i'm sure thirty is a very secure age to be)
2) Even though I haven't lived very long, I have lived enough to know that I will always think I know how the world works, even if I discover something new every day.
3) I am not always right, but that's okay, because I don't have to be. That doesn't mean being wrong is preferred, but it is not unacceptable.
4) I have immense respect for people who find happiness in simple lifestyles.
5) Everything I have done academically in the past sixteen years has been towards a career- I can never be a housewife and pretend as if that part of my life did not matter. Yes, I am sure.
6) Resolutions are just a way of postponing what you subconsciously do not want to do. If you want to go to the gym, stop reading this and go now. Why wait?
7) Silence is not a bad thing. Neither is spending time by yourself. You spend time with other people to understand who they are. How will you understand who you are?
8) My life has become a series of songs that I listen to according to what I am feeling. Literally.
9) I don't really want to do ten since that's so cliched as it is, so I've saved the best for last- a fool-proof method to get rid of hiccups: take in as much air as your lungs can manage, hold your breath for five seconds, take in some more air, hold for a few seconds, and slowly exhale. I'm telling you, it has never failed me. The method is hereby patented through this blog.

So there you have it. Words of wisdom you probably couldn't care less about, but they have become my reality. Of course there's more to my life than nine points, but I find that decisions I make often fall under one or more of the above categories. Today, spend a few minutes thinking about what you've accomplished. And if there's something you have wanted to do for a while, know that this moment will never come again. As for me, I will make full use of this moment by enjoying my oh-so-scrumptious-melt-in-your-mouth Cadbury.

Welcome to Sambhavna

2006-12-18T08:07:00.000-08:00

Dada: His real name is Kallol Dutta, and he is the computer tech guy at the clinic. He doesn't work here for the money, since he has a private software development business. No, he works here because no else knows jack about computers. He cracks me up, because he's always complaining and giving Sathyu a hard time during the meetings when he's not sleeping during them. But he's a good man, reminds me of Papa.

Saba: The librarian of the clinic, she is always smiling and cracking jokes. She's extremely educated and is one of the few people at the clinic who can speak English fluently. She's leaving the clinic soon; I'll miss seeing her scurrying about in the library, stressed about how there's too much to do but no one does what they are supposed to.

Amita: She works in the pathology lab, for whom I'm entering the pap smear data into the computer- not the most exciting job, but necessary nevertheless. When I first met her at the weekly staff meeting I was a bit intimidated by her aggressive personality. The one-on-one conversations I've had with her, however, have led me to believe that she's not a scary person, quite human actually :) She's the type of woman who isn't afraid to express herself, and I truly admire that about her.

Natasha: She's only a few years older than me, so we get along well. This girl eats a ton yet has to safety pin her salwars tighter because she's so skinny! We both are in love with two songs from the movie Anwar: "Maula Mere Maula" and "Javeda Zindagi". They are played at least 10 times daily and it drives Shweta insane, but Natasha and I- giggling like schoolgirls and playing the song one last time- derive immense pleasure from it. She's Punjabi too and we both pig out on chole bhature whenever we go to Manohar Dairy, a reasonably priced restaurant that has become the clinic hangout for the volunteers.

Biju: He's originally from Kerala, and Hindi is his third language (after Malayalam and English), but he is by no means uncomfortable speaking it. In fact, he's quite the talker. The "cool dude" at the clinic with his studded ear, short pony-tail, baseball cap and tattoo on his hand, he takes care of his male Panchkarma patients during the morning and flirts with the ladies in the afternoon, all of whom call him "bhai" to his utter dismay. He's the clown who isn't afraid to speak his mind during meetings either, even if no one agrees with him.

That just gives you an idea of the diversity the clinic has to offer. There are plenty of interesting people that work here, some of whom I'm getting to know better than others. Some people love their jobs, others can't stand it- it's like any other work environment. There are internal politics, there are allegiances, it's the day-to-day reality for these people.

Oh, I saw Dhoom 2- great action, bad songs, women with skimpy clothing, and gorgeous guys. It's Bollywood at its best, but in the words of Levar Burton, don't take my word for it.

Why?

2006-12-06T06:54:00.000-08:00

"Ganda pani saaf Karo!
Bhopal mein insaaf karo!"

It's not that they were asking for clean drinking water, they were demanding it. Demanding the right to be able to live without waking up every morning and being envious of the thousands that have died, because they don't have to suffer like you do. They are the lucky ones.

This past weekend made being in Bhopal all too real for me. Yes, Bhopal is known for what happened five past midnight on December 3, 1984, but it is not something that is discussed everyday. You don't see hundreds of people marching down a dark alley with flaming torches in their hands, shouting their deformed lungs out until they are gasping for the little air that is left in their spongy organs. Hope is the thread that binds us all together. Hope for justice, hope for life without poison, hope that children will be born without missing body parts.

"Awaz do! Hum ek hain!"

We are one- white, black, brown, purple, Hindu, Muslim, Christian, Atheist, man, woman, young, old, and in that instant of saying those five words, we are Bhopalis, we are survivors, we are strong and we are loud (really, really loud). We are fearless despite the police that surround us, we are angry that the government is capable of being so unresponsive to the world's largest industrial disaster. We burn an effigy representing Dow and the Indian government; the quickly roasting limp straw inside them is not as weak as the morals of the officials who choose to make false promises their profession.

"Ladenge! Jeetenge!"

We will fight and we will win. No ifs or buts. It's a done deal. Wearing masks of crying ghosts, holding the signs that we made till 1 am in the morning, we walk for two hours as the sun shines directly down at us. It is hot, yet the sweat is quenching my fatigue. We walk to the factory where it all began, the cursed ground that has partially blinded the woman next to me. She cries. We hug, but the pain in her tears is more than I can comprehend. How many children has she lost? How many more will she lose? How will she survive on the meager earnings that are quickly dwindling? And the largest question of all, the one that looms over her, refusing to leave our minds. The question that she probably asks herself everyday, hoping that today, yes today she'll find the answer. Why? I wrote this a few years back, but it is for those who have lost so much and still have more love to give than any one of us.

Why they ask
Does it happen to those
Who already lost all they had

Must it be so
This tragedy of tragedies
This horror story beyond words

The tale of unspeakable sufferings
Why must it be us they ask
Who live this dark, muggy reality

This reality of death and deformity
Of life as a curse
Why must misfortune
Always knock on our doors
Why must this haunting
Stomp on our floors

Is there hope
That I may live this life as you do
Is there a chance
That I may breathe the air without choking
This air thick with poison
Like a thousand needles it stings
This air that enters my being
Not to give me life, oh no
But to strangle every strand of resolution
Every ounce of energy that remains
It slowly and surely drains

After my bones collapse beneath my skin
What is left inside this mortal
Is a slowly beating heart
A pulse which quickens with every victory
With every success my blood rushes to my fingers
And they unite to create this powerful fist
This symbol of my strength
This mark of my resolve
It hails our triumph
Against those that curse our existence
It hails our triumph
Against steps that you thought impossible
It brings us together
With immeasurable persistence
And helps us see
The faint but determined glow ahead

Why they ask
Must it happen to those
Who have already lost it all

Because you never really lost
What was taken from you
The freedom to breathe
The freedom to live
The freedom to act
Regain what is rightfully yours
The time is now

Thinking Out Loud

2006-11-29T09:09:00.000-08:00

The weather is converting to a more pleasant, cool crispness that I'm beginning to enjoy. I mean, really. Who wouldn't enjoy wearing sweaters and having an excuse to pour a boiling pot of H2O into the bucket of morning bathwater? Winter is my favorite season of the year, and I believe it has begun here.

I woke up today to high pitched voices chanting "happy birthday". That was at 7:30 am. Of course I had to finish my dream, so I went back to sleep and woke up an hour later. Of course my dream changed, as they have a bad habit of doing after untimely breaks caused by singing children. Speaking of children, they no longer run ahead of me and say my name until I walk by. It's turned into more of an acknowledgement of my presence. "Hi Prigya!" is waved from twenty meters away, no running towards the girl that walks super fast and hops on running buses.

The posters are finally finished, and the exhibition begins tomorrow, while another exhibition ends tomorrow- the Bhopal Handloom Expo in the Haat Bazaar of M.P. Nagar. Stalls from Maharashtra to Rajasthan to Bengal to Kashmir have been set up since the 20th of November until the 30th, overflowing with fabrics that crumple like thin tissue paper, shawls that feel like soft snow, and colors that would make a rainbow look bland. I bought what I needed, a bag to hold my heavy items that would never fit in a dainty little purse. And there my shopping stopped, unlike Kate and Marie Jose who practically purchased half the expo. So I'm exaggerating, but their shopping genes were active in full force tonight. A cultural program was taking place which I enjoyed more than looking at stuff I knew I wasn't going to purchase. A talent show of sorts was being held on a green felt stage, reminding me of the perfectly groomed golf course I was forced to go to every Thursday during senior year of high school. I needed another P.E. credit to graduate, and golf was the only sport that was offered after school that didn't require you to be good at it. So there I was, me and Asma being the only females, desperate to pass this class so we could get out of it, surrounded by a bunch of over-enthusiastic fourteen year old golfers. It was then that I decided it was too boring to be considered an official sport. But that's just my humble opinion.

It's Been a Month!

2006-11-28T05:50:00.000-08:00

So it's been a while, both since I've updated and since I've been at Sambhavna. About a month actually. Crazy how time flies, it surely doesn't seem like a month has gone by. And a month of what? Discovering the reality of what people really are, both good and bad. Demolishing my over-romanticized notion of the idea of social service, how it's not always a feel-good-warm-and-fuzzy feeling, that it does get frustrating at times when you were supposed to get on the bus going the other way but found out 20 minutes too late. Ah yes, the buses. A large portion of my mornings are spent travelling on their non-shock-absorbing seats, often squeezed between two overly plump women clad in burkhas. Yes, not wearing a dark body cloak that hides everything but your eyes is sure to draw attention, given the majority Muslim population in Old Bhopal where the clinic and many of the hospitals are. So its not as luxurious as my nearly-delapidated '92 Nissan Sentra back in Austin, but I do not mind it at all. Riding the bus around Bhopal lets you see the city through a different lens. The conductor's record-like announcements of the coming stops at a breakneck speed that would put the fine print orators for sweepstakes commercials to shame. The worst collection of Bollywood songs known to mankind blare fuzzily through the speakers conveniently placed right above your head for your listening pleasure. Running on and off packed compartments, losing sight of your arm amidst other arms whose owners are probably clueless as to what part of the metal railing they are clutching for their dear life. I know of the unpleasantries/random feeling ups that take place on buses, but I have experienced nothing of the sort in Bhopal, not even once. A seat is almost always immediately offered to the girl that stands out like a sore thumb on public transportation. Not that I dress in gaudy party wear, but I do not look at all like the dark skinned, sari wearing, burkha clad women that occupy the bus if at all. That is, if there are any women. But just because the bus is not overflowing with females doesn't mean I can't take advantage of the uber cheap prices that go with travelling at its finest. That was sarcasm, by the way.

The 22nd anniversary of the Bhopal Gas Tragedy is quickly approaching, and Sambhavna-ites are constantly running back and forth in hysteria, even if nothing gets accomplished. But a lot is getting accomplished. We will have an exhibition for 3 days in an auditorium, a candlelight vigil, a masked march, and probably more things that I am not yet aware of. So after coming back from the hospital inquiries during the day, I eat a hearty lunch which oddly enough is starting to taste amazing if I don't use a spoon, and apply my aesthetic talents (or lack thereof) to create the posters I've been assigned to work on. I compensate for my lack of artistic ability by using- to the point of abuse- stencils and highlighter markers. They do wonders, and I've received many a compliment for my first poster, for which I'd like to credit the neon greens and hot pinks that I've forced to grace the lime green paper. The color combinations might sound a bit odd, but trust me, it's fairly presentable. My feeble attempts at making bricks for a poster titled "Chemicals in Your Home- Everyday Items Can Be Harmful!" have come out not exactly as I expected. But if you look hard enough, they look like bricks. This is why I majored in Biology.

Salaam Bombay -The Other Extreme

2006-11-18T05:37:00.000-08:00

I didn't realize how long my entries were until I looked at them myself, so I'm going to try to keep this one short...uh, shorter.

Where was I? Ah yes, we had experienced living with the financially-not-so-well-off for a few days, and once the protestors headed back, I saw a side of Bombay life that was on the other end of the economic spectrum. Kate has a college friend who went to Cornell's hotel school with her, and we stayed with this friend who now was the Project Assistant Manager at the ever so luxurious Taj Hotel. After being sandwiched in jam-packed trains for two days, we were treated to a driver who took us to an extremely posh and ridiculously expensive country club for dinner. Over the course of a day and a half, we mingled with the young elite of Bombay, the creme de la creme of Mumbai's 'well-to-do's. In the beginning it was nice, but after a while the exorbitant prices and almost surreal behavior of the people around me seemed to surround every situation with an awkward blanket of superficiality. Don't get me wrong, our hosts were wonderful and socially aware people- most of them grew up in the United States and were now working in India. I should have felt right at home then, right? Strangely enough, they hadn't heard of Mohammad Rafi, called Karan Johar 'Ka-rahn Jawhair', and kept mentioning all the things which made Indians such a wonderful people, in an almost tourist-esque sort of way. "You are more Indian than we are, Pragya", one of them remarked after I explained to him what a ghazal was. Bizarre, how you think the people you would have so much in common with end up being the people you are worlds apart from...

After the short-lived glitz and glamor of the rich and the (possibly) famous, we were once again plunked into reality when we boarded our train to Jalgaon. Four people were seated in our seats and patiently showed us that the ticket we had for 00:10 was actually for the day before. Funny how no one saw it before. Actually, at the time it wasn't really that funny, but in retrospect it does bring a smile to my face. Two sons of one of the helpful aunties on the train helped us obtain a 50% refund on our now invalid train tickets and purchase new tickets for the next morning, not to Jalgaon but to Bhusaval. Our sleep deprived morning consisted of taking the 6 am train to Bhusaval, a bus to the Ajanta caves, spending 3 hours there (absolutely stunning, by the way), and taking the bus to Jalgaon where we had hotel reservations at Hotel Plaza. We reached Bhopal the next day, and I can not tell you how good it felt to be back at the place I'm beginning to call home.

Salaam Bombay - The Insanity Continues

2006-11-13T09:27:00.000-08:00

"Utho! Get up!"

It's 4:30 and some crazy man is going around, telling people to wake up at this untimely hour. It's almost as bad as Mammi repeatedly screaming my name on Saturday mornings, demanding I get out of bed when that's the last thing I want to do. Within five minutes, the bathroom is flooded by very aggressive women wanting to get ahead everyone else. People are already washing their bedsheets, slapping their wet clothes against the concrete which probably woke up the people that still managed to continue sleeping. I'm semi-awake at this point, and even though I don't consider myself part of the 99% percent of the desi population that drinks chai, I decide to succumb to it's warmth and suprisingly filling sweetness.

The day didn't start until 8 am when the protestors headed out to the InterContinental Hotel. They were outside the hotel's gates, some of them were chaining themselves to the metal railing. Kate and I had other plans, as being potentially arrested wasn't on my agenda anyways. Rachna suggested that we go inside the hotel and under some pretext, sit in the lobby and inform the individuals outside of what was going on. According to our story, Kate's father was participating in the conference, and we were waiting for him to come out and have lunch with us. The fun part was talking to people without them actually knowing why we were there. Initially, we sat down in an area that was also occupied by the lady that was organizing the conference. She gave us some information on what was going on that day and who was speaking, like the Union Minister of Chemicals and Fertilizers, a certain Shri Ram Vilas Paswan. We also managed to get some information out of two individuals representing the Italian Trade Commission, as Italy was the partner country for the conference. Our subtle inquiries didn't always have fruitful results. There was a guy with a huge camera and hence was presumably a member of the press but I couldn't decipher who he was with. There were two other men that were sitting near us in the lobby. It turned out that they were travel agents, and they ended up giving us a huge list of places to visit in Bombay. The Union Minister showed up only after we had left the hotel and joined the protestors outside. Kate, Tony, Jen, and Diana couldn't participate proactively since they weren't Indian citizens and could possibly get deported were they arrested. Fortunately for me, that wasn't a problem. And no, I didn't get arrested, even though there was a group of policemen and policewomen keeping a watch on our (very large) group of supporters. Finally, when the Union Minister's posse did approach the gate to the hotel (an hour after his expected arrival, go figure) he stopped on the road, got out, and walked towards us, accompanied by a multitude of security personel and flashing cameras. We had caught his attention.

I didn't hear what was said at the time because of the crowd that was densely packed around the center of activity. But after the minister had spoken everyone clapped, so I figured something positive had come out of the short interaction. Later, I found out he had made certain claims/promises such as Dow should clean up the Union Carbide factory site, the water contaminated families should be compensated along with the gas affected families, etc. I wasn't terribly impressed; he's a politician, and that's what politicians do best. I believe the success of the event was getting him to talk to the survivors and getting media coverage as a result of his political status. The next morning's paper had a huge picture of three hands chained to a metal railing. No story, but a picture. Some coverage is better than none at all, right?

We used the extremely efficient local train system to travel back and forth from the hotel and wherever else we needed to go. Men were strictly prohibited from riding the ladies' section of the train, something I witnessed when a man was running toward the train and happened to get on our compartment. Almost immediately a group of women stepped forward and demanded he get off the already speeding train. As soon as the next stop arrived, he was promptly pushed off, and I felt a slight wave of sympathy for the poor chap. Having a separate compartment for females didn't excuse us from being nudged, pushed, and bruised in general, not to mention pressed flat against at least five different bodies at a time. Whoever said females were demure had obviously never ridden in the ladies compartment of the Western Railways train.

By the third day in Ambedkar Hall, I'd gotten to know a few families quite well. Nafisa, her brother "Shoaib Akhtar", and I spent a lot of time talking to each other. Two sisters, Yasmeen and Nasreen wore matching green suits and kept insisting that I wear their nice clothes, because the white salwar that was brown by this point just wasn't doing it for me. That morning I had woken up before the other volunteers and managed to squeeze in a bath at 5 am when the crowd of women was not terribly dense. While I was attempting to update my journal in the pre-dawn light, one of the older women with a honey-sweet raspy voice volunteered to braid my hair. I agreed (there was no reason not to), but wasn't expecting her to actually comb it. The pain of detangling my unwashed locks reminded me of the good ol' days when Mammi used to fix my hair every morning and put those huge, currently unpopular yellow ribbons in it. When my hair was throroughly combed and tightly braided, I felt like a young girl getting ready for school. More importantly, I felt a strong sense of acceptance in this community I was going to be in for six months. After the goodbyes and see-you-in-Bhopals, only a few people remained. Our train to Jalgaon was not this night, but the next. We had a whole day and a half to explore the city. So that's what we did, and the Bombay that I saw was so different from anything I'd ever seen before...

Salaam Bombay - Beginnings

2006-11-12T22:27:00.000-08:00

Mumbai: the metropolitan hub of India, where the richest of the rich reside with the poorest of the poor. It's a city of culture, of theatre, of film and glamor, of trends and nightlife. It's a place of extremes and diversity. It's also where more than three hundred people gathered to protest the wrongdoings of chemical companies, to make sure that the world doesn't suffer through another "Bhopal".

My escapades began last Tuesday, November 7, when we took the Kushinagar train to Bombay through a not-so-thrilling 14 hour train ride, reaching the City of Bollywood at a very early 4 am on November 8. I knew we'd have a little difficulty when as soon as we got of the train, we realized we weren't at Mumbai CST, the station our ticket claimed to stop at. CST, we presumed, meant Mumbai Central, so we took a cab to that station, only to find out that 1) Mumbai Central only had local lines and 2) Mumbai Central was not Mumbai CST. In fact, it was Victoria Terminus, something which we are somehow supposed to know because of course, the two sound so alike. Oh, Bombay...

So at 6 am we are finally at Mumbai CST, exhausted and hungry. After a refreshing masala dosa, Kate and I head out to find Ambedkar Hall, the place where we will be staying the next few days. According to directions, we take the local train, get off at the Dadar station, and head in a direction which we think is east. Of course, since nothing can possibly go right, it turns out being west. But because there are no arrows pointing out directions in this chaotic city we walk till the very end of the road we are on, because it also happens to be the direction multiple people point us to when we ask where Ambedkar Hall is. But people never really know what they are talking about, so in retrospect we shouldn't have listened to them. Not that we had a choice. Upon reaching a dead end bordered by a stony beach, we enter what seems like a memorial to the great Mr. Ambedkar. We are told that this is the Ambedkar monument and not Ambedkar Hall, which is on the other side of the railway station. Sigh. Arrows pointing out directions could have definitely come in handy at times like these.

It's 2:45 and we've finally reached the humongous tent of a structure we were supposed to reach a few hours ago. Famished, we are greeted by a multitude of women who smile and hold our hands. I'm feeling rejuvinated already. The food consists of rice and dal, and I kid you not, rice and dal never tasted better than at that moment. We are told that everyone is heading out for a protest at 3 pm, which by now is 3 minutes away. So we rush to finish our food and head out with the throngs of men, women, and children that traveled over 700 km to express anger, passion, and disapproval at what was happening in one of the most posh hotels in Mumbai- India Chem 2006.

Only the largest chemical conference in the country, India Chem 2006 (http://www.indiachem2006.com/) was to be held from Nov. 8-Nov 10. We protested chemical companies' exploitation of the disadvantaged by standing along the road by the Andheri train station. Large yellow and blue banners, photos of the living dead were held high by the wrinkled arms of old women. Children passed fliers detailing the crimes of Dow, and passerbys going up and down the station's steps had no choice but to see the faces of these children, the faces of corporate double-standard. Men were present as well, and their baritone voices rang loud and bold as they responded to Sathyu's call. "Ladenge! Jeetenge! Ladenge! Jeetenge!" We will fight, and we will win- they knew what they wanted and weren't afraid to demand it. Professional cameras lined the other side of the railing, but I didn't see anything in the paper until after the second day of protesting. Two hours later, the older men and women were getting tired. Some of them were sitting on the road because they couldn't stand anymore. But the place was still packed with energy, the chants still ringing high in the air. The purpose had been to make a statement- we are here, and we haven't forgotten.

Any exhaustion that had disappeared during the infectious enthusiasm of the protest quickly returned as soon as we got back to the hall. Each family had their section of the hall territorially marked out by a bedsheet they had spread on the stone floor. Yet the sheet was by no means a wall, and people interacted with each other, moving from one sheet to another. I did the same, and each 'house' that I went to was as warm and welcoming as the next. People talked to me as if I was one of their own, and that was a great feeling, knowing that you are not seen as an outsider amongst a people you want to work with. I met a few girls around my age and we talked for hours about their lives so vastly different from mine. We helped prepare some materials for the next day of protesting, and enjoyed a dinner of sabji, roti, chawal, and dal. Despite a not-so-great start to our day, it had turned out to be more than I could have hoped for. The warmth and strength of the people around me was greatly motivating, and I felt like I was a part of something amazing, something that words really can't do justice to. Words also can't describe how tired I was by 11 pm, and after a brief struggle to use the ladies bathroom shared by over a hundred women, I finally crashed - metaphorically, that is.

Lie after lie after lie after lie....

2006-11-04T05:50:00.000-08:00

So for those of you that were lazy and didn't read the gigantuous five posts before this one, I am doing a project trying to disprove the Population Based Cancer Registry's claim that it goes to these 64 hospitals in Bhopal and Indore and collects cancer data from them either daily, weekly, monthly, or 'as and when required'. The lack of existence of any sort of system in the hospitals I've visited so far makes it really easy to disprove the PBCR. I've gone to Jawahar Lal Nehru Hospital and Ayushman Hospital, and in both they claim that they themselves don't record the number of cancer patients they get, or even the number of cancer patients that they diagnose. In fact, they refer patients to the cancer hospitals, but they don't even record the number of patients they refer. Big surprise? I think not. Logically, I conclude that if the hospital itself doesn't have a record of cancer information, then how is the PBCR saying they collect cancer data from these hospitals? Yea, I know. These people are pretty good at lying.

Other than work, there have been other things that have been keeping me busy, like sewing. For some reason, the white salwar that I wear oh-so-often seems to enjoy opening at the seams, and that too very subtly. It's not until I was sitting cross legged on my bed, enjoying the freedoms of eating Haldiram's namkeen one fine evening, that I noticed this gaping hole in my salwar near my shin. And of course, as any logical-minded human being would do, I got out the thread and needle that had been conveniently provided for us and started sewing. I've had to do it twice now, and noticed an opening in a third area which should be closed...I'm guessing it's from washing the clothes so often. But washing them with biodegradable soap is kind of fun - makes you feel all warm and fuzzy inside :) The smell isn't the greatest, but hey, they turn out clean. What more could I want?

I'm beginning to venture out by myself more nowadays. It's usually during the day and involves menial tasks, like going to the chemist's to get some cream for the mild infection my recently pierced nose decided to accept without consulting me. One of the girls that work in the computer department suggested getting this thing called "eye tubes" which is a cream you put in your eyes, but I would be putting it on my nose. Interesting, no? It's actually working quite well, and I got 4 of these tubes for Rs. 1. Nose rings can be quite uncomfortable at times, I haven't gotten to having a loop moving around in my nostril yet.

And the food, oh the food! I love the food here, probably more than the people, though the people are wonderful as well. I guess that makes me a bad person, but that's ok- I really like the food :)

Settling Down

2006-10-31T03:57:00.000-08:00

Today would be Halloween in America. I spent the day looking at females getting pap smears and physical checkups. Not that I wouldn't love to dress up in an outrageous costume and pig out on cholesterol-laden food, but I thought getting doctor contacts for going to Bhopal hospitals and reading up on cervical cancer was a better use of my time. Maybe that's just me.

I'm finally settling in and feeling like I have a system set up. A disciplined lifestyle, if you will, something I thought my body wasn't capable of after high school. I wake up at seven (ish), take a "refreshing" shower with ice cold water, only to find Altaf waiting for me outside the ladies' bathroom. He then proceeds to follow me around as far he can, and then I have to go to the gynocologist, Dr. Kaur's, office. The women that come in might do so if they are pregnant, have a runny nose, a back ache, rough soles under their feet, burning eyes, it's not always a gyn-related. This is because one of the doctors is sick and Dr. Kaur gets his patients as well. I record their complaints/reason for coming and their blood pressure/pulse, and ask Dr. Kaur questions about what she's doing/writing/diagnosing. Lunch is at noon sharp. Lack of punctuality might lead to another fifteen minute wait for food as the two cooks have to prepare more food if they run short. In the afternoon, I look through pages and pages of doctor-scrawled pap smear and vaginal test results. Deciphering the code that is messy handwriting is the hard part, the data entry into the database is easy. The clinic closes at two, but the day is far from over. I'm often online, researching my queries of the day, learning more about cervical cancer, buying fruits or milk from the nearby Berasia Road. Yesterday we bought a train ticket to Bombay for a protest against Dow at an Expo in Goregaon. I've never been to the City of Bollywood before, I figured this is as good a time as ever. After the protest, we're taking a train to Jalgaon, spending a day at the Ajanta Caves, then heading back to Bhopal.

The kids in the basti recognize me now - when I was going to the store to get milk, I was greeted by a loud "Pragya! Pragya! Hi! Pragyaaaaa!" I figured this is what famous people must feel like, except they also fall prey to blinding lights and looking impeccable wherever they go. I can get away with my two-day old white salwar bordered with dust that's not so white anymore. Sorry Ma. Don't worry, I still wash my clothes (every once in a while). Back to the point, I wouldn't want to be famous, privacy is too valuable to me. Not that you care.

In a nutshell, life is good. Tomorrow I complete one week at Sambhavna. Who knows what the next week has in store for me...

Life goes on...

2006-10-27T00:29:00.000-07:00

Twenty-two years after the tragedy, being around the Union Carbide factory will give you the goosebumps. Really. We visited the area yesterday, led by a group of enthusiastic four-foot-somethings who were more than happy to gain the attention of the Americans in our posse. The ground's contamination was evident by the lack of grassy growth, and the air reeked of something pleasant. Chemicals are not supposed to smell pleasant, but the smell around the factory was definitely different, a floral freshness. But I didn't see any flowers, nor had the area been scrubbed by Lysol recently. The strange odor didn't seem to bother the kids that were asking me about my mehndi-ed hand. They claimed to play in these open fields all the time, deeper in than we dared to go, for fear of being affected by the smell. We even ran into children playing cricket near the factory at that time, and they didn't seem to mind. There was a large wall along the road which separated the factory grounds from that side of the streets, but a few turns into narrow alleys and stepping over half broken stone bridges led us to a line of small cement shanties that were a stone's throw away from the factory. There was no wall that protected these people, only a few trees that were shabbily leafed. One of the boys I talked to looked 8 or 9. He claimed he was 12 years old. Others had spots on their lips or differently colored irises. Despite all of this, they were kids, joking around, talking about the circus they were going to go to, asking question after question. This was their reality and our worst nightmare.

So I think I finally have some idea of what I will be doing as my long-term project here. Of course there will be the daily translations from Hindi to English or vice versa, visiting the gas-affected and water-affected communities with the health workers, data entry, working in the pathology lab, etc. In addition, there is a Population Based Cancer Registry (PBCR) that is supposed to collect cancer data from each hospital in Bhopal. They claim that the chemicals in the gas didn't cause cancer and through a Right to Information application filed by Rachna, we found out what hospitals they claim to go to and how many times a week/month/year they go there. My job would be to visit as many of these 64 private and public hospitals that I can and confirm whether the PBCR does indeed come as often as they say they do, and if not then when. We are debating whether I should go under the guise of someone working for Delhi's All India Institute of Medical Sciences (AIIMS) or a medical student working on a project looking at the cancer diagnosis, treatment, and follow-up process in Bhopal. I've always fancied myself as a journalist, but that might be romanticizing it a little too much :)

There is a small boy named Altaf whose twinkling eyes and flawless complexion are beauty exemplified. He's in the first grade and loves anything to do with putting a pen on paper, whether it be writing the alphabet or drawing. He drew a picture of me that was the exact clone of his depiction of Kate, and Jen, and Tony, and Michael. Today he discovered he can read when I showed him how to put two letters together. He is a real bright kid, already reading three-letter words with ease. I doubt I learned how to read that quickly. His mother is a sanitation worker at the clinic, and he keeps himself busy by hanging out with the volunteers, riding on the portable ferris wheel outside, making up games, and just using his imagination in general. And he has the cutest singing voice :)

In the evening, we went to Shahid Noor's place for an Eid dinner. He is one of the survivors of the Bhopal disaster and leads the solar lantern project that Aid-Austin is currently funding. The two rooms of his home were brightly decorated, the steel utensils gleaming clean under the single lamp that lit up the living room. His three children, Aman, Anshu, and Muskan were just as hospitable as their parents and fed us chhole, chapatis, and a desert called seviyan. Even though the place was small, their love for Rachna and Sathyu seemed immeasurably large. Watching their interactions made me smile, and though I barely spoke, I thoroughly enjoyed being there with them on such a joyous occasion. The girls had started developing spots on their face, which their parents said was because of the water which is contaminated. That is what really breaks my heart. These kids are the same as kids anywhere else, if not more passionate about life. They too have dreams and aspirations, and yet they are inflicted with such problems by no fault of their own. But they were jumping around, and Aman, their youngest, was stealing chocolates from his sisters. I noticed the same thing when I went out with Taznim, one of the community health workers, today. We visited the houses of numerous girls to check on their period regularity or lack thereof, and symptoms they experienced. Some were doing fine because of the treatment they were receiving at Sambhavna, while others hadn't menstruated for months. Even though pain and suffering is a constant presence in their lives, marriages are taking place, cricket games are being won, Eid is being celebrated. Even though they've been through so much, they continue to be tested. Life goes on for these people. How can it not?

First Impressions

2006-10-25T01:59:00.000-07:00

My uncle and I took the Bhopal Express from the Nizammudin Railway Station and arrived in Bhopal at a bright 6:40 am. The ride was rather pleasant, as most of it was spent sleeping on the upper berth of the 2nd class compartment of the train. The lower compartment was taken by a middle aged man on one side and a young couple on the other side. The couple stayed relatively quiet throughout the whole ride, but the uncle had a lot to say, especially after he found out I went to college in the oh-so-wonderful United States of America. For some odd reason people seem to think that if you lived in the States you know everything about the demand for jobs in their respective fields. One distant relative had asked me how the scope for economics was, and this one asked me about the scope for biotechnology. I admitted I had no idea. He then went on a monologue about how Indians are excelling in so many fields, that's why the U.S. is outsourcing, etc. etc. He concluded his monologue with something on democracy, but I don't really remember because by this time I couldn't even politely pretend to listen, so I continued reading the book I had in front of me. Besides, he was looking at my uncle.

As the train pulled to a gradual stop at the station, the first thing I saw in Bhopal was trash, a lake full of it. There must have been ten thousand plastic bags in that water, and amidst the trash two pigs were wrestling. I mentally contrasted this image with the sprawling five-star malls I had visited a few days ago. No city would intentionally provide such a view for those staring out of their barred train windows. Rather, I figured that Bhopal is no Delhi, where the government chooses to spend lavishly on larger than life television screens at malls instead of cleaning up a potential tourist turn-off. Ah, good ol' beurocracy...

Today is Eid, so the largely Muslim communities our auto-rickshaw drove by showed the splendor that would grow as the day progressed. It was still early in the morning, so while the brown dirt was being swept from one side of the street to the other, men in blazing white kurta pajamas were strolling along the streets or zooming along in their two-wheelers. Women in black burkhas strolled slowly, the wind ruffling their heavy black garments to reveal bright greens or dark magentas underneath. Even though the community the clinic is in is very impoverished (not to mention one of the greater gas affected communities) people were wearing all the new attire they could afford this season. Oiled heads were neatly combed and tightly braided, shiny shoes glittered on the feet of small children, their skirts had more ruffles than one could count, it was quite a sight. There was even a portable ferris wheel right outside the clinic where the young ones would soon gather just to get a taste of thrill as the ferris wheel man pushed one swing down after the next.

The first person I met at the clinic was Kate, an American from Oregon who is living in the same room as I am. We talked some and then after she gave me a tour of the very very cool ayurvedic plants garden we went shopping for some groceries. I had never experienced what I saw she experiences every day - every kid looking at her in fascination and saying 'HI' with a big smile plastered on his/her face. The older boys of the community just stared lewdly and would say something not so innocent. It was insane! I knew whites in India would be treated differently, but we had only been out thirty minutes and she must have heard it at least thirty times. Being able to deal with that takes guts.

So far I am enjoying every moment- the clinic is spacious and we have all the amenities the people outside the clinic don't: filtered drinking water, free meals, large beds, wireless connection, European toilets....I am truly fortunate. Today I'm relaxing, inquiring, exploring, but tomorrow I will get to do that with the doctors, the patients, the community health workers, with everyone who I didn't meet today. I feel the excitement of a kid who wants to try everything but doesn't know where to start. For now, I'm just absorbing everything I can.

The Streets of Delhi

2006-10-18T00:32:00.000-07:00

As I walk along jammed traffic on the broken asphalt of the Lajpat Nagar market place, I see movement but no stress. Everyone is laughing, talking amongst themselves, enjoying the buttered roasted corn that the vendor is selling on the street or the freshly squeezed fruit juices at the corner dhaba. The fashionably dressed youngsters chatting on their cell phones stand next to the withered middle-aged man who probably holds a BPL (Below Poverty Line) ration card. Delhi is the Indian melting pot where individuals from all socioeconomic levels interact on its busy roads. Of course, the roles of each individual are within the predetermined spheres our society has set out for them. Children who should be at school are instead trying to sell glossy glamor magazines with the latest Bollywood gossip. I see one child successfully wiggle her way through densely packed traffic, pushing these larger than life celluloid images towards open rickshaws, pressing them against the glass of air-conditioned cars, persistent in her efforts to sell pictures of the demigods whose names she can not even read. I see clusters of teenage boys smoking handmade beedis, their eyes lustfully capturing the curves of every female that walks by, accompanied by the occasional whistle and the sporadic lewd comments. I see three foot wide potholes and uncovered gutters on roads leading to arching monuments and magnificent malls. This is the India that is known to National Geographic, to Times Magazine, to The Travel Channel. It's a land of third-world poverty coupled with an unstoppable economy. This is the India that everyone sees, including myself. It is so easy to stop looking here and decide what this country seems to be. But try looking a little deeper, and you'll see something greater than a child out of a C.R.Y. pamphlet. You'll see potential. You'll see slum dwellers standing up for their rights to receive grain and kerosene by filing the Right to Information applications. You'll see IT professionals that left their comfortable two-story suburban Texas houses to live in a land they used to call their home, a land that many have given up on as a place where "things will never change" (it's a phrase that, to my dismay, I've heard much too often). You'll see people inspired by Bollywood's recent Gandhian-struggle-oriented releases holding candlelight vigils at national monuments. Things will never change for those who refuse to see the revolution that is slowly but surely taking place. The rest of us can help prove them wrong.

Welcome to India

2006-10-15T22:23:00.000-07:00

So here I am, in the motherland at last. My jet lag consists of getting up at 6 am and getting sleepy at 8 in the evening, but staying up anyways until my eyes can't take it anymore, and then I crash. Metaphorically.

I got here on a lovely humid night on the 12th of October, and I've been eating ever since. As soon as one meal ends, planning for another begins. I'm sure those of you with large families know what I'm talking about. The rest of you might find the idea of ending one meal to begin another absurd. But I assure you, it happens every single day. And then there are the things that you know you miss if you think about them, but that you don't give much thought to otherwise. Like the traffic. Ok, 'traffic' might not be the right word. 'Traffic' implies the movement of vehicles on a road. Movement happens but only if accompanied by a loud horn blasting your ear off. Besides, vehicles aren't the only things moving on the roads. You have your more than occasional cow, a sporadic bullock cart, and then there are the beggars, ever present. It's not that they are not deserving of sympathy. They are. But begging in Delhi has been made into a thriving business, one which succeeds on suffering, tattered clothing, and children. Not cool.

Then there's the food. Goods that are stale by the time they reach your local international grocer become craved delicacies when you want them badly enough. But here, mouth watering dishes that otherwise would be made only on special occasions are cooked on the spot. It's heaven for Indian food lovers, and I continue eating even though I was full two meals ago. That might be the cause of my slighly sore throat that has unexpectedly begun to cause that annoying little frustration that you wish would just go away. But it's here, and I figure if I'm sick, I'm sick. Eating another piece of mango pickle won't hurt me since the damage has already been done, right? Yes, I know it's a lame excuse, but when you want something that bad, you don't really care anymore.

Let's not forget the never ending family obligations. I finally planned out my Delhi itinerary so as to make all 4 uncles, 2 aunts, and their respective families happy. I have become a domestic nomad within the Bhagat clan, spending the night in one house today, somewhere else tomorrow, somewhere else the day after that. Of course Diwali and Bhai Dooj are coming up, so there's gifts to buy for those events as well. Add shopping for two Punjabi weddings (my cousin's and long time neighbor's) to the equation, all to be completed within 9 days, and you get one fun-filled package of utter and complete chaos. I don't know how my parents managed everything so well, I had never really paid attention to the technicalities before. We just did what they told us to, and went where they were supposed to go. This whole planning business is quite a pain in the arse, especially when you've never done it before.

I am at my aunt's workplace and have a computer all to myself, so I'm trying to make the most of it, hence the painfully long beginning. Hopefully the others will be shorter. It's so hard to convey everything that I'm going through, my feelings, my actions, my perceptions of the society I am currently living in. And it's about to change again when I head to Bhopal in less than two weeks. Change after change is upon me, but I guess that was expected. After months of planning, saving, and built up anxiety, here I am...