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By Root 1039 0

in a shipwreck. This onslaught gave rise to particularly distressing scenes. Going out briefly into the street to assess the situation, Gandhe saw screaming youngsters clinging to their mothers’ burkahs, men who had gone mad tearing about in all directions, rolling on the ground, dragging themselves along on their hands and knees in the hope of getting to the hospital. He saw women abandon some of their children, those they could no longer carry, in order to save just one—a choice that would haunt them for the rest of their lives. In desperation, the young doctor decided to appeal to his old mentor, the man whom, a few minutes earlier, Mukund had awakened and informed that an accident was likely to give rise to “some emergency admissions” at the hospital.

“Professor Mishra,” he begged after describing the situation, “come quickly! All hell has broken loose here!”

His appeal mobilized a chain of events marked by remarkable efficiency and extraordinary self-sacrifice. Two of the principal people involved would remain unknown. Santosh Vinobad and Jamil Ishaq were the operators on duty at the city’s central switchboard, located on the second floor of the main post office, just opposite the Taj ul-Masajid. Decaying and antiquated, it reflected India’s backwardness when it came to telecommunications. Madhya Pradesh had only two circuits that could carry international calls, and only a dozen lines to handle all domestic communications. Those Bhopalis fortunate enough to have a telephone had to go through the switchboard operators to make any intercity calls. The bell jangled and Jamil Ishaq plugged in his connection. As soon as he heard the person on the other end of the line say “Hello” he exclaimed, “Professor Mishra! I can hear you.”

The doctor, who had just set up his command post in his office opposite the Hamidia emergency room, was too disconcerted to speak.

“I recognized your voice, professor. Allah be with you! I’ll give all your calls priority.”

Mishra thought to himself that the whole city must know about the catastrophe. He expressed his gratitude.

“Whatever you do, don’t thank me, professor. This is the very least I owe you. You operated on my gall bladder a few weeks ago!”

Resisting the temptation to laugh, Mishra blessed his former patient’s gall bladder and at once gave him a series of numbers in Europe and the United States. Since the Carbide representatives had proven so uninformative, he would ask the World Health Organization in Geneva and Medilas in Washington for any information they might have on treating MIC poisoning. But it was still Sunday in Europe and America. It would be another ten hours before offices opened and Mishra could obtain his information. In the meantime he decided to alert the local pharmacists and have them immediately bring all their stocks of bronchodilators, antispasmodics, eye salves, heart medication and cough syrup and drops. After that he set to work getting his colleagues, the deans of the medical schools in Indore and Gwalior, out of bed. He asked them to gather up all available medicines in their sectors and dispatch them by plane to Bhopal. Finally, he called those in charge of the various firms in Bhopal that used oxygen bottles. “Bring us all your stocks,” he told them. “The lives of twenty, thirty, possibly even fifty thousand people are at stake.”

Once he had finished this telephone offensive, Mishra decided to rally all the medical students. Most were asleep in their hostel behind the medical college, in the wake of their celebration in Shyam Babu’s restaurant. Mishra would wake them himself. He climbed the stairs, and went along the corridors, banging on their doors.

“On your feet, kids!” he cried. “Don’t waste time getting dressed! Come just as you are, but come quickly! Thousands of people are going to die if you don’t get there in time.”

Mishra would never forget the sight of those boys and girls scrambling wordlessly out of bed and running almost in their sleep across the street to the hospital. Some demonstrated their heroism almost immediately. One