What's Your Verdict?

In December 2009 I had written about the 1984 Bhopal gas tragedy that remains till date the worst industrial accident in history. And I was surprised by the number of people who did not remember it at all.

So, things changed. Union Carbide received a face-lift over the years and became Dow Chemicals. Oh yeah, Warren Anderson continues to live the good life in the Hamptons after skipping out on bail from India during the 1980's. Hypocrisy and self-interest and politicking are still very much alive. And U.S. double standards. They're alive and well too. I'm sorry...did I say things have changed? I meant nothing has changed.

Except of course for the verdict? Yes, didn't you hear? All eight Indians accused in the case have been sentenced to two years in prison (yes you read that right too). But this is a lower court verdict so let's not put people in cells right now. Now the case goes onto higher courts.

Twenty-five, almost 26 years later we have this verdict with the main accused still absconding. While through the years people have died agonizing deaths, babies have been born with severe birth defects and none of the poor affected people have received much in terms of true compensation, adequate medical let alone vindication.

But President Obama hopes the verdict brings "closure" to the families. Really, President Obama? What happened to the honest, open, erudite *real* human being I voted for? When did he become a clone? To be honest I kind of expected that...the nature of the presidency and all...but still it hurts.

What else did the U.S. do to commemorate this event?

1. It ruled out the reopening of any new enquiries against Union Carbide (now Dow).

2. It continued to ignore extradition requests for Warren Anderson and refused to even discuss it.



What else?

3. Oh yes, it expressed its hope that this verdict (long enough coming) wouldn't inhibit the political and economic ties between India and the U.S. and that it wouldn't impact the passage of the Civil Nuclear Liability Bill.

You know what's sadder? India too will walk away from the 25,000 dead who died that night and the hundreds of thousands (yes you read that right) of others who have died because of the leak in the almost twenty six years it took to reach this verdict.

Because ultimately what matters is trade and gaining a place among nations of note. In the meantime the Gulf of Mexico continues being over-run with oil. Who will be the losers? The people of the area, the unfortunate living creatures who call the waters and the coast home, and the environment.

Who will escape unscathed? BP and the U.S. Admininstration. But you can bet that if the U.S. tries to charge some BP head honcho he ain't going to be living it up in the Hamptons. Like I said....hypocrisy and double standards are still alive. As is the proven notion that some lives are more precious than others.

These are the things I know to be true. What do you think?

Death Came By One Night

Twenty-five years ago today, December 3, 1984, death came to Bhopal as it slept. The nearby Union Carbide (now Dow Chemicals) plant leaked methyl isocyanate (MIC) and other toxins in the air, exposing half a million people to deadly gases. About 4000 people died instantly. A few days later it was estimated that double that number died. In the years after the tragedy, babies were born with an inordinate number of birth defects, and survivors suffered a host of exposure-related illnesses. It is now estimated that 20,000 have died since the accident of gas-related reasons. An additional 100,000 to 200,000 battle the ill-effects of the leak even now.

I remember, as a young teenager, waking up to the news of the gas leak. And in the days that followed, I had nightmares about the dead. One photograph in particular has stuck in my mind even after all these years, and I believe it might be one that most people still think of when they think of Bhopal. A hand, palm down is caught in the process of burying a child. All you can see are the staring dead eyes, the mouth slightly open. And that the greyness of the ground and the skin of the child are virtually the same.



Twenty-five years have passed and those who lived through the gas leak and those who lost someone are still without any recompense. Not a recompense as much as money to help with their considerable medical expenses. It's sad really when we have frivolous lawsuits in the U.S. (hot McDonald's coffee anyone?) and when the Erin Brokovich's of the world have movies made about them.

There are no movies about Bhopal perhaps because there are no heroes. Perhaps because the only true heroes are the ones who survived that night when death crept in slowly and soundlessly. They went on, and despite poverty and the lack of wherewithal to fight against a powerful nexus of corporate greed and government laxity...they live on. But we don't venerate quiet power do we? We want our heroes to smash down barriers to live an arc of cinematic grandeur. And no one in Bhopal did that.

Twenty-five years later this is what we know:

1. Even now there are some 390 tons of toxic chemicals abandoned at the Union Carbide site, slowly leaching into the ground, continuing to poison those who live in the area.

2. There are currently civil and criminal cases pending at the District Court of Bhopal and at the US District Court of Manhattan. There is even a warrant out for the CEO of Union Carbide at the time, Warren Anderson. Yet no one, that's right no one has been arrested, let alone prosecuted for neglilence leading to essentually,
mass murder. Warren Anderson has never been extradided to face charges and lives in luxury in Bridgehampton, NY.

3. This was not merely an accident. it was pure negligence. Union Carbide used hazardous chemicals like MIC despite the availability of less dangerous ones. The chemicals weres stored in large tanks instead of in steel drums. There was corrosion in the pipelines and there was multiple failure of several systems due to poor maintenance and regulations. In fact, safety systems were shut down to save money. There had also been previous warnings and accidents. In fact in 1981 American experts had warned of the possibility of a disaster in the MIC tank, and local authorities had warned Union Carbide on several occasions from 1979 onwards.

Did Union Carbide ignore these warnings due to pure hubris or because it was situated among the poor of Bhopal and their lives truly had no value?

4. There was some compensation paid. Widows of the tragedy received Rs 150 (later raised to Rs 750) a month. Yes, that's about USD 3-15. About Rs. 200 was given to everyone who was born before the tragedy. That's about USD 10. A one-time payment of Rs 1,500 (about USD 38) was paid to all families with a monthly income of less than Rs 5000 (USD 100). Other payments are of equally ludicrous amounts.

The final payment by Union Carbide (for over 20,000 deaths and about 200,000+) affected was $470 million. That sounds like a huge amount until you compare it to the $333 million paid out to the plaintiffs of Hinckley, CA for the contamination of their ground water by Pacific Gas and Electric (Erin Brokovich)....and this was an issue that affected 40...yes 40 homes!

As if the sum decided upon by the Government of India and Union Carbide was not bad enough, the local and state government corruption in the state of Madhya Pradesh, has done its bit to victimize those who had already lost so much on that cold December night 25 years ago. This has taken the form of lost paperwork, paying out more money to richer people with connections, not acknowledging that birth defects or deformities were directly caused by the gas leak, delayed payments, etc.

Did I mention there were and are no heroes in Bhopal? There are some unsung ones, those without panache or sex appeal. There are NGOs in Bhopal working for the victims and for the cause of justice but not much is happening. And isn't true heroism striving even when the results are unknown?

But it is up to us to not forget, to remember the horrors of that night, to continue to support NGOs and others working for the victims of Bhopal. I know I can't ever forget because those dead eyes will haunt me no matter where I am. Those eyes and the question I see in their sightless gaze.

A special place in hell...

...is reserved for whoever hacked into my hotmail account. To anyone who has received this email and might be concerned about my Nigerian vacation from hell:

1) I am not in Nigeria and have never been there.

2) I have not been robbed by robbers armed or otherwise. In fact I hope to masquerade as an armed robber beat the shit out of the hacker.

3) Even if I was in such dire straits I hope I do not abandon all rules of grammar, and of semi-decent writing. Heck, if I ask you for money I will definitely proofread and spellcheck my email before sending it. I promise!

This hacker asshole has also reset my password and when I try to reset it, hotmail sends the instructions to the very account I can't get into. Brilliant!

I've emailed them to let them know what's going on and hope to resolve this soon. But soon...very soon...this fucking bastard is going to rot in hell.

Grow up for god's sake...isn't hacking people's email ids passe by now? Get a life...heck get pubes...get a girlfriend (or boyfriend...see I am so PC!)...find something more challenging than sending badly written emails to a bunch of strangers. Hack into heavily guarded corporate or government sites and I might even admire you...but this just shows you're a sorry pathetic asshole, who might be 50 but his voice hasn't changed? Have you even kissed a girl?

Shame!

The Revenge of Steve Irwin

Steve Irwin, noted environmentalist, crocodile hunter and popularizer of "Crikey," and "ain't she a beauty," took his revenge from beyond the grave. Muaaah haaaaa haaa!

34 stingrays died suddenly in the space of 24 hours at the Calgary zoo.

So, I'm sick in the head and a tad evil and mad at the world these days, but when I heard of this mass death of stingrays, this is the headline that popped into my head. Couldn't help it.

Yeah, yeah, I know the real Jawahara who is currently on mental/emotional vacation these days would find this event really sad and quite scary but heck, as her evil doppleganger I gotta say, don't mess with Steve Irwin. Dude played with brown snakes and cobras. Watch out stingrays....that's all I'm gonna say!

The Glory of His Smile: A *Very* Short Story

He feels the closeness as he never had before. The breeze coming in from the barely-open window of the car touches him like a balm. His hand on his shoulder guides him, carrying him past all obstacles. He is blessed.

Was the a glimpse of paradise, verdant and cool as he speeds past an empty, deserted lot? He sees himself as he was, weak. And now he is made powerful. Made righteous and whole. His cotton shirt has already soaked up the tears of his mother and sisters as they said farewell to him just fifteen minutes ago. He feels the loss of the moisture on his skin and he wavers.

He closes his eyes just for an instant. The car swerves slightly and he rights it carefully, his eyes fully open. He stops at the designated place and waits for the designated time. The hands of his watch speed up and then slow down in a strange cabaret. He prays. The hands steady and he counts down.

"I am ready," he says out loud and feels the glory of the divine smile beside him. Around him.

The car hovers in an instant of waiting silence before it explodes.

F-150 and I: Dancing the Tango on a Wet and Rainy Street

I know the size of the front of a Ford F-150 truck. is it 20 times my head? Thirty? Of that I cannot be sure. But I know for an instance it is the size of the world and everything in it. It takes over your vision, fills your senses and makes your world just a tango for two. You in your mini-SUV and the F-150, white and black coming together as if by some inescapable force

And then you realize that that strangely graceful time as it slid towards you before the impact was just a prelude. That its grace is less elengance and more sheer power and brute force. And that the music looping in my head splinters apart in the garish cymbals of breaking glass and buckling metal.

And then, after, when it's done, when the cops and the ambulance are gone, when I've called anyone who needs to be called, using my most-calm voice....that's when the fear arrives. More than the soreness of my body...is the magnitude of my fear.

Fear of driving...driving like an old lady, avoiding sitting behind the wheel, re-living that silver grille on a black surface slamming into my car. Spinning around in slow motion.

My life did not flash before my eyes. I thought of no one. I ceased being myself.

How can something that lasts an instant still be with me three days later? Will it still be here 3 weeks later, 3 months?

How do people go back to real life after being seriously injured in car accidents? How do they get their nerve back?

I barely faced my mortality in that accident and I am not (well I'll know for sure when I go to the doctor) even injured and yet I feel as if I've lost something, some part of myself that I might never find again. Something I still need to search for and reclaim.

As soon as I figure out what it is. But I am happy (is that the right word?) to be still here...still alive.

The air smells sweet and I fill my lungs with it before letting it go...slowly!

Tale from the Crypt

Byron has carved his signature into stone, each letter distinct on the lightly colored surface, elegantly delineated. I can imagine him leaning close to the stone pillar and carving out each letter of his name patiently, knowing that generations to come would look upon it and try to divine his presence.

This Byronic graffiti is in of the first floor rooms at the Chateau Chillon, about an hour and a half drive from Geneva. Situated on the banks of the lake, it is part a fortification (and toll booth for lake-faring merchants of yore) and part a stately royal residence.

From the cold stone of the underground dungeons and other rooms to the giant fireplaces and beautifully detailed furniture of the rooms on the top floors, this 900 year old castle appears strangely insubstantial when you view it through the shreds of mist around the lake. But it is real and it has survived for almost a 1000 years mostly intact.

While other tourists wandered around the courtyards and admired the views from the many windows or exclaimed over the painted ceilings and ornate furniture I found myself shuddering in the heat as ghostly fingers crept up my spine.

I had walked into the crypt, a place that others seemed to avoid. In the 15 or so minutes I spent in the crypt there no one else entered. I could hear the sounds of conversation, the laughter (and cries) of children above me, but no one else was around.

It was damp and occasional shafts cut into the ceiling let in light while slits on the side of the stone walls gave me glimpses of the lake. If I listened carefully I could even hear the swishing of the water against the outer walls of the castle.

But more than that, despite not seeing anyone there I did not feel alone. There was someone. Many someones here. The temperature had dipped as soon as I walked down the rough-hewn stairs. As I stumbled I steadied myself against a wall and felt the moisture chill my skin. I wondered if there were bodies entombed in the walls.

Was that strange smell just from centuries of being next to a body of water? Was it just mustiness or was it really the smell of buried bodies? It didn't smell like any other subterranean place I've ever been to. This was the smell of death.

More than a smell, this was a place where live could not thrive. From the smell to the feeling of being buried even as life continued above me. The tantalizing glimpses of sky and water just made it more surreal.

Rooms led to passages and steps and more rooms. Who were the nameless dead? At least Byron had left his mark in a place frequented by the living on a stone pillar that was warmed by the sun that streamed in from a nearby window. But these people had no names, they are anonymous and I am not sure if they were totally at peace.

I wondered if I could find my way back through the maze, wondering if I was doomed to be trapped forever, bad B-movie scripts playing in my head. Then I saw an old wooden ladder. I climbed up gingerly and emerged into the blazing sunlight, slightly disoriented.

It was strange to be back among the living. Perhaps I had brought something dead up with me into the land of the living.

Wilde in the Rain

I will never think of Paris without rain. Cold rain trickling down my nose, making its way under my cheap, yellow poncho that says Paris! on the back. Trickles of rain as we sat inside a restaurant. Sheets of rain as soon as we emerged. It was a live entity this rain. Stalking us, lying in wait until we came outside at its mercy.

Cascades of rain as we waited in the longest line in the world, to the top of the Eiffel Tower. Perhaps it mocked us for our tourist follies. It certainly was malicious. Blown sideways into my face on the second level, open to the elements, beading on the glass windows at the top.

Rain...rain...rain, as we walk down the narrow pathways of the cemetery. Glistening on Oscar Wilde's tomb. "You are my hero," says a scrawl in red. Hundreds of lipsticked kisses (indelible marks, Lonely Planet tells us) decorate the block of rock with a large winged creature springing from it.

A page with his photograph, its edges ragged, dripping with water. A candle extinguished long-ago, a red rose with all its petals blown off save one. Wilde's grave is a favorite spot for gay men. They kiss the grave, try to have sex on it...and commune with him in some way.

Jim Morrison's grave is hidden away. We approach a guard, "Excuse me?" in English. "Morrisson?" he says and laughs.

We find it. It's small but there is a small gate leading to it. A bottle of whiskey leans drunkenly, the joints lie soaking and unusable. "Jim, Oh Jim," says a woman in her 50's to a man who will forever be 27 to her.

Respect for the dead, the signs inform us, is to not deface their graves. But they forget to write about love for the dead.

As strange as it was to me that a woman would cry at a stranger's grave as if he had died yesterday or that others would have sex (very uncomfortably) on another's grave, there is something haunting about their love. It is not amorphous and abstract. They actually feel some real connection, some link that reaches across the years and makes their feelings current and makes the dead come alive...for an instant.

My shirt is soaked. There are tears in my poncho already (6 Euros well spent). I lift my face into the rain and lick the drops off my lips. And I feel alive.

I wonder if the sun ever shines in Paris. It'll always rain in Paris for me.

Lightning Strikes

I've been thinking about this story I remember from my childhood.

A group of people are taking shelter from a storm in some small building. Lightning crackles, circling the building as if looking for someone specific, someone in particular. Each time the thunder crashes people cry out in panic.

Finally, one person has a suggestions. The lightning is obviously seeking out one particular individual from among them so perhaps each person can step out one by one. The lightning, which refuses to be thwarted, will get its victim but the rest of them can be saved.

Everyone agrees except one person. He is terrified. No one listens to him. One by one they step out into the night sky that is shredded apart by lightning. One by one they return, until one person is left, the dissenter.

He begs them not to make him go out. Together they can weather this storm. He cries and pleads. But no one listens.

On trembling legs he steps out into the night. The sky explodes as a long finger of lightning reaches down and strikes the building within which the rest remain, convinced of their safety.

He was obviously the only one the lightning was not wanting to strike. It was not in his fate to die that night, just as it was the fate of the others to die together. His presence was keeping them alive.

There are so many ways to read this story. I've always found it fascinating. There are lessons hidden within it.

What do you think?

Jaya's cousin

Quite a few years when I had first sent in my story, Jaya, to chowk, I got an email from her cousin. Even though I had fictionalized the story quite a bit and had not used her last name, Jaya's cousin recognized her name. She was a scientist at CERN in Switzerland. We kept in touch for a while. Then we lost touch. I hate the fact that I don't even remember her name. Pratibha? Pratima? Last name? How elusive, this brain of mine. It can remember strange details (how a certain piece of rock looked exactly at some Circuit House when I was 8, the name of some little girl I sat next to in a bus years ago) but her name eludes me.

I was thinking of Jaya today...and then I thought of her cousin. On a related note, a few years ago I found a link to this old story of mine on some site in Germany (the rest of it is in German) and now I work for a German company. I am wandering.

So, here's a teaser from the story:

I was born at the darkest moment of the night. The time before the night lightens for the first glimmerings of dawn.
The time that is totally still, waiting...always. And now I drift here, in this darkness. A darkness that makes the hour of my birth seem like day. So thick, so impenetrable, so comfortable. Effortlessly, I turn in this womb of
death and I am happy. Happy? Just a word that I always wanted to really understand for so long. A goal never attained.

If you want to read more:

Here's a link to the German site: http://www.imn.htwk-leipzig.de/~bunk/mirror/jaya.htm

And here's the link to the slightly more edited version on chowk: http://www.chowk.com/show_article.cgi?aid=00000492&channel=gulberg

Is most of life about losing touch with people: through death and drifting? Or is it something we do...connecting with others in between the death and the drifting?