Five Past Midnight in Bhopal - Dominique Lapierre [63]
Since the dawn of India’s history that mythical word, “patta” had haunted the dreams of millions of disenfranchised people. It had fired the hopes of all those who, in order to survive, had had no alternative but to set up their hovel wherever they could. The people who had ended up in the Kali Grounds were among those poor unfortunates: those people, whom Indira Gandhi’s son had tried forcibly to drive away, the people whom the works manager of an American plant dreaded seeing encamped against its walls, had for years been clinging desperately to the pitiful patch of dust that Belram Mukkadam had once traced out for them with his stick. And there, suddenly, was the godfather bringing them official property deeds issued by the government of Madhya Pradesh recognizing their right to occupy their miserable piece of squattered land.
It was too good to be true. Never mind the fact that this deed would have to be renewed in thirty years’ time, never mind the fact that it was officially forbidden to pawn it or sell it, never mind the fact that their owners would be taxed thirty-four rupees each year. A frenzied cheer went up from the crowd, which rose to its feet in a single movement. People chanted the names of the chief minister, Omar Pasha and Indira Gandhi. They danced, they laughed, and congratulated one another. Caught up in a surge, Padmini suddenly found herself raised above the surrounding heads like a figurehead, the fragile emblem of a people throwing off its chains and achieving the beginnings of dignity. As far as these illiterate men, women and children were concerned, the pieces of paper Omar Pasha pulled from his chest were a gift from the gods. These deeds would remove their fears for good by allowing them to plant their roots forever in the welcoming ground, over which fluttered the flag with the blue-and-white logo.
Every time Omar Pasha invited a beneficiary to come and collect the document inscribed with his name and the designation of his plot, a bearded character sitting at the back wagged his head and rubbed at his enormous eyebrows. For the Sikh Pulpul Singh, the neighborhood usurer, this was a fortune on a plate, an opportunity to increase his wealth, even if it would mean breaking the law against pawning the deeds. Pulpul Singh could already see each sheet of paper that came out of the godfather’s chest winding its way into his own safe. The day would come that these poor people would need to borrow money from him, and what better guarantee could he ask for than the deposit of those magical deeds, which he could always find a way of selling at a profit?
Part Two
A NIGHT BLESSED BY THE STARS
25
A Gas That Makes You Laugh Before It Kills You
With his thick mustache, bushy eyebrows and round cheeks, the thirty-two-year-old Muslim Mohammed Ashraf was the mirror image of the Indian cinema idol Shashi Kapoor. The resemblance had made him the most popular worker in the plant. In charge of a shift in the phosgene unit, on that December 23, 1981, Ashraf had to carry out a routine maintenance operation. It was a matter of replacing a defective flange between two pieces of pipework.
“No need to put your kit on today,” he announced to his colleague Harish Khan, indicating the heavy rubber coat hanging on a hook in the cloakroom. “The factory isn’t running. There’s no likelihood of a leak.”
“Gases can walk about even when everything’s stopped,” Khan retorted sharply. “Better be on the safe side. A few drops of that blasted phosgene on your pullover can hurt you. It’s not like the bangla from Mukkadam’s teahouse!”
The two men burst out laughing.
“I’m willing to bet Mukkadam’s rotgut is even more dangerous than this bloody phosgene,” Ashraf said, donning his mask.
No one had ever had cause to reproach the Muslim operator for any breach of safety procedures. Ashraf was one of the most reliable technicians in the company, even if he did leave his workstation five times a day to go out into