Five Past Midnight in Bhopal - Dominique Lapierre [105]
“But?”
“She got away from us. She threw herself out of the window.”
“Oh my God!” The nun felt her heart pound. For a few seconds she remained silent, then slowly crossing herself, she said softly, “Lord Jesus, receive your innocent child into your Paradise.”
“She’s not dead, sister!” Anita said quickly. “An ambulance has taken her to Hamidia Hospital.”
Fifteen minutes later, Anita and Sister Felicity ran through the emergency entrance to the building where the air was thick with the smell of disinfectant and ether. The floor was spotted with red stains left where people chewing betel had spat. The wards were almost empty. Sunday was not a day for too many accidents. Under the inscription DOCTORS ON DUTY, two doctors were settling down for a quiet night in their small office. Tall and lanky, with his black shock of hair carefully combed, the thirty-five-year-old Hindu Deepak Gandhe, and his young Muslim colleague Mohammed Sheikh had been students together at the Gandhi Medical College, the enormous building on the other side of the road. Since then they had been inseparable. One was a general practitioner; the other a surgeon. That was the usual combination for a tour of duty. The arrival of Sister Felicity and the young Indian girl caught them right in the middle of a game of dominoes. They stood up.
“Doctors, we’ve come about Nadia,” said Sister Felicity.
Dr. Sheikh’s face froze. He played nervously with his mustache. The two women prepared themselves for the worst. Dr. Gandhe, however, gave the faintest of smiles.
“Little Nadia has undergone an operation,” he said softly. “For the moment she has survived her injuries. We hope to be able to save her. She’s in intensive care.”
The Scotswoman’s eyes filled with tears. “May I see her?”
“Yes, Sister, you can even spend the night with her. You’ll have the whole ward to yourself. There’s no one else in intensive care this evening.”
While Sister Felicity and young Anita began a prayer and vigil night beside little Nadia’s injured body, the thousand guests at the wedding in the Railway Colony tucked into petits fours, kebabs, prawns, diced chicken in ginger and pieces of cheese wrapped in spinach delivered by an army of turbaned servants. Despite the fact that his cardiologist had forbidden him alcohol because of his coronary problems, Harish Dhurve, the stationmaster, tested his luck with the glasses of “English liquor,” the imported British whisky being served. Suddenly he found himself nose to nose with his doctor.
“Indulge me, doctor, this evening is exceptional, a night blessed by the stars!” he apologized.
Dr. Sarkar was the official doctor for the residents of the Railway Colony and the station staff. His Bengali sense of humor meant that he was never at a loss for repartee. Looking pointedly at his patient’s glass, he asked, “And what if the stars decided to go on strike?”
This reply brought a slightly forced smile to the stationmaster’s face. More than anyone else in Bhopal that night he needed the blessing of the stars. Like most of the other railway employees invited to the festivities, he would have to slip away a little before midnight to attend to his duties at the station. In fact that night was expected to be extremely busy because of the pilgrims arriving to celebrate Ishtema. Dhurve had had all the station staff requisitioned, including the 101 coolies. His station was one of the country’s principal railway junctions. He had promised himself that he would control the excess traffic with punctuality and suppleness, and provide the thousands of visitors with a welcome befitting Bhopali hospitality.
Midnight. In the factory, unknown to anyone, a bomb had just been primed. After the night-shift operators had tried vainly to drain the system of the rinse water that had been injected into it for the last three hours,