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ballast. They stumbled over corpses twisted into horrible attitudes of pain. Here and there, they could hear death rattles, but there was no time to stop. Then a great roar rent the darkness, accompanied by the same shrill whistle that made the occupants of the Kali Grounds tremble in their sleep. The train! Brandishing their lanterns, the four men ran to meet it. Very swiftly, however, they ran out of breath. In the end the toxic vapors had penetrated their damp cotton compresses. Hyperventilating with the effort, their lungs craved more and more air, the same air that was poisoned with deadly molecules. The weight of their lanterns became unbearable. And yet they kept on going. Staggering between the sleepers, suffocating and vomiting, the four men desperately waved their lights. The engineer of the Gorakhpur Express did not understand the signal. Thinking they were revelers fooling around the railway track, he kept on going. By the time, in a horrifying flash, he saw the men yelling at him from the middle of the rails, it was too late. With its engine cowling spattered with flesh and blood, the Gorakhpur Express was entering the station.

The headlights of the locomotive surging out of the mist made the deputy stationmaster jump. V.K. Sherma realized that his men had failed. The train glided smoothly along the rails of platform No. 1 before stopping with a deafening grinding noise. There was still one last chance to prevent the worst.

Like all large stations in India, Bhopal was equipped with a public address system. V.K. Sherma dashed to his console at the far end of the office, turned on the system and grabbed the microphone. “Attention! Attention!” he announced in Hindi with as calm and professional a voice as he could. “Because of a leak of dangerous chemical substances, we invite all passengers due to get out at Bhopal to remain in their carriages. The train will depart again immediately. Passengers may get out at the next station, from where buses will transport them to Bhopal.” He repeated his message in Urdu. All too quickly, he was able to gauge the success of his announcement. Doors were opening, people were getting out. Nothing could threaten the lives of pilgrims coming to celebrate Ishtema. They were secure in the knowledge that Allah would protect them.

With a wet towel over his mouth, Sherma left his post to run to the head of the train and order the engine driver to leave. He knew that this order was illegal. All trains stopping in Bhopal were required to undergo routine mechanical checks. Curtailing a stop meant preventing these checks. That night, however, there were no maintenance teams or parts supervisors left. There were only hundreds of people who might yet be saved. Terrified that the vapors might already have reached the engineer, that he might have passed out or be dead at the controls of his locomotive, Sherma hurried as fast as he could. Recognizing his uniform, dying people clung to him in a last desperate effort. Others threatened him and tried to block his way, demanding help. Stepping over bodies and slipping in vomit, he at last reached the front of the train. There, his railway worker’s reflexes came back to him. He took his little flag out of his pocket and banged on the window of the locomotive’s cab.

“All clear. Depart immediately!” he announced.

That was the ritual formula. The engine driver responded with a nod of his head, took the brakes off and leaned hard on the regulator of his diesel engine. To the accompaniment of grinding noises and whistle blasts, the Gorakhpur Express extricated itself from the dreadful necropolis. Drenched in sweat, breathing painfully and with a pounding heart, but proud of his achievement, the deputy stationmaster picked his way back through the carnage to his office at the other end of the platform. But Bhopal’s stationmaster’s office was no longer recognizable.

The small notice “A/C OFFICE” displayed over the door had attracted some of the passengers driven frantic by the toxic cloud. In the conviction that the gases would be unable to get