Day 15 of Indefinite Fast in Bhopal

March 19, 2007

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

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

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

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

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

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

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


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

Day 14 of Indefinite Fast in Bhopal

March 18, 2007

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

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

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

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

Day 13 of Indefinite Fast in Bhopal

March 17, 2007

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

Shivraj Hamse Darta Hai!

Police Ko Aage Karta Hai!

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

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

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

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

Day 12 of Indefinite Fast in Bhopal

March 16, 2007

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

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

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

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

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

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

Day 11 of Indefinite Fast in Bhopal

March 15, 2007

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

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

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

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

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

Day 10 of Indefinite Fast in Bhopal

March 14, 2007

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

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

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

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

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

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

Day 9 of Indefinite Fast in Bhopal

March 13, 2007

Where are they?

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

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

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

Day 8 of Indefinite Fast in Bhopal

March 12, 2007

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

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

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