It has been 41 years since the Bhopal gas tragedy, and our collective memory has faded so much that even survivors have begun to believe it was simply their unfortunate fate.
One story of that horrific night lives in my family. As the gas spread, my grandmother wrapped her three children, including my young father, in a blanket and breathed the toxic air herself. She survived the night, but the exposure stole most of her vision. A year later, tuberculosis claimed her life—a delayed death that began with that toxic cloud.
“We were at home, and then everything changed,” said my father. Their neighbourhood in Ashoka Garden was one of the worst hit. People were coughing and shouting on the streets.
“Our ija (mother) kept on pouring water in our eyes whenever the burning became unbearable. She pushed our bodies deep into the blanket, making sure not a single part was exposed. Papaji was in a deputation away from Bhopal, due to which he was completely unaware of the incident until the next morning,” my father added.
Uncle’s memories of that night are equally haunting. He woke up at 5 am, coughing, barely able to see. He and his friends went out on a Balaji Chetak to understand the true magnitude of the situation.
He saw that the houses were empty and the streets filled with corpses. He went 13 km east to find out that a lot of people had already left the city.
“The effects of gas stretched as far as Govindpura (an industrial township), and its sting reached as far as Narela (a village on the outskirts of Bhopal at the time). Only the BHEL colony was untouched,” Uncle said.
People were running for their lives. The city looked like it had been hit by a silent war. Uncle remembered a friend who was so terrified that he abandoned his wife, just four days into their marriage, and fled alone.
He also remembered neighbours who ran out in panic, leaving their infant behind. Later, it was discovered that everyone in that family died except the child.
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Bodies everywhere
Hospitals were filled with dead bodies because the doctors were not prepared for such a mishap. Uncle saw bodies scattered all over the corridor at Hamidia Hospital. The chaos was so overwhelming that no one could tell who needed help and who had already died.
The administration decided to dump many bodies into the river and nearby waterbodies to hide the true number of the dead.
“A lot of misinformation about the tragedy was spreading all around, but no accountability was established for the politicians. Today, some are even contesting elections,” Uncle said.
“It feels like justice was buried long before the bodies were. With every anniversary, the wound only deepens instead of healing,” he added.
While talking about compensation, my father often jokes bitterly.
“We received peanuts,” he said. Many received an amount that wasn’t enough even for basic needs. My family spent most of it on my ailing grandmother.
According to Uncle, my grandfather’s honesty became the reason my family didn’t receive the rightful compensation.
“Papaji submitted all the documents of ija’s death without consulting an advocate. Later on, we found that people received up to Rs 5 lakh as compensation because the advocate helped inflate the hospital bills of the dead victims,” he said.
(Edited by Prasanna Bachchhav)