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8

A Little Mouse under the Seats of Bhopal’s Trains

THE BHOPAL TEA HOUSE. There was something faintly comical about the sign. Its faded letters were displayed across the facade of a booth made out of planks, and stood opposite the entrance to Orya Bustee. There, amid the nauseating smell of frying fat, the traditional sweet tea with milk, millet flour fritters, minced chilies and onions, rice and dhal, chapatis and other kinds of griddle cakes were served. Its main trade, however, was in “country liquor,” or bangla, a local rotgut made out of fermented animal intestines, of which the teahouse sold gallons every day. A notice in English warned clients that the establishment did not give credit: YOU EAT, YOU DRINK, YOU PAY, YOU GO. The proprietor, a potbellied Sikh with bushy eyebrows, rarely showed himself. Although he was an important local figure, forty-five-year-old Pulpul Singh made his presence felt elsewhere. As the local moneylender for the three bustees, he practiced his trade from behind the heavy metal grilles of his two-story modern house at the entrance to Chola. Enthroned like a Buddha in front of his Godrej-stamped safe and two immense chromos of the Golden Temple of Amritsar and a portrait of Guru Nanak, the venerable founder of the Sikh community, Pulpul Singh exploited the economic misfortunes of the poor. To recover his debts, he had hired a convict on the run from a Punjabi prison. With a filthy turban on his head and his dagger ever at the ready, this villain was the terror of small borrowers. He had the protection of the police, whom he bribed on behalf of his master. So hated was he that his master could no longer allow him to run his drinks stall. Instead he employed the man most respected by the local people, Belram Mukkadam, whose walking stick had marked out the site for all the residents’ huts.

Founder of the Committee for Mutual Aid, which combated injustice and fought to relieve the worst cases of distress, Mukkadam was a legend in his own lifetime. For thirty years he had battled ceaselessly with corrupt officials, shady politicians, property agents and all those who wanted to get rid of the ghettos on the belt of land north of town. Because of him the date August 18, 1978, would become famous in the history of Bhopal. On that day, Mukkadam would lead two thousand poverty-stricken people to invade the local parliament and demand the cancellation of an eviction operation planned for the next day. He would encourage the poor to hold their heads high to strengthen their spirit of resistance, and he gathered around him men united regardless of religion, caste or background, who formed a sort of informal government for the bustees.

Despite the fact that a yawning divide separated this local hero from the sordid activities of his employer, Mukkadam had agreed to take on the management of the Bhopal Tea House because it provided him with a forum. Around its handful of tables reeking with alcohol, people could publicly discuss their affairs and better organize their response to any imminent danger.

The little girl bounded toward the disheveled looking man who had just appeared at the end of the alleyway, staggering like a drunk.

“Daddy, Daddy!” she cried as she ran toward her father.

Clearly, he had stopped at Belram Mukkadam’s teahouse. Although he was not a drinker, Padmini’s father had downed a few glasses of country liquor. It was an indication that something serious had happened. Padmini threw herself at his feet.

“The railway work is finished.” Ratna Nadar spoke with difficulty. “They’ve thrown us out.”

On that winter’s day more than three hundred coolies had suffered the same fate. There were no employment laws to protect temporary workers. They could be laid off at any time without notice or indemnity. For the Nadars, as for all the other families, it was a terrible blow.

“My father tried desperately to find another job,” Padmini would recount. “Every morning, he would set off in the direction of Berasia