Five Past Midnight in Bhopal - Dominique Lapierre [86]
Just as the assassination of Mahatma Gandhi thirty-six years previously had done, the news plunged the nation into painful stupor. By the middle of the afternoon, every city in India had become a ghost town. In Bhopal, a twelve-day period of mourning was decreed. All ceremonies, celebrations and festivities were canceled, while cinemas, schools, offices and businesses closed their doors. Flags were flown at half-mast. Newspapers published special editions in which they invited readers to express their despair. “INDIA HAS BEEN ORPHANED,” proclaimed one of the headlines. Another paper wrote, “In a country as diversified as ours, only Indira could guarantee our unity.”
“We will no longer hear the irresistible music of her eloquence …” lamented Bhopal’s people recalling her recent visit for the inauguration of the Arts and Culture building. “The realization of this project will make Bhopal the cultural capital of the country,” she had announced to applause and cheers of “Indira Ki Jai!” The city’s companies, businesses and organizations filled the newspapers with notices expressing their grief and offering their condolences. One of the messages was signed Union Carbide, whose entire staff, so it declared, wept for the death of India’s prime minister.
That afternoon, the shattered voice of the governor of Madhya Pradesh resounded over the airwaves of All India Radio. “The light that guided us has gone out,” he declared. “Let us pray God to grant us the strength to remain united in this time of crisis.” A little later the inhabitants of the bustees gathered around the transistor belonging to Salar the bicycle repairman. Arjun Singh, chief minister of Madhya Pradesh, who had made them property owners by granting them their patta, was also expressing his sorrow. “She was the hope of millions of poor people in this country. Whether they were Adivasis, harijans, inhabitants of the bustees or rickshaw-pullers, she always had time for them and a solution to offer to their problems… . May her sacrifice inspire us to continue to go forward …”
It was not until the next day, however, when the funeral was held, that the residents of Bhopal along with all the people of India really became conscious of the tragedy that had befallen their country. For the first time in history, television was going to broadcast the event all over the nation. Anyone who had access to a set, whether through some zamindar, * organization or club would see the images relayed live. All at once an entire nation was to be joined together by media communion. At daybreak, at the behest of Ganga Ram, owner of the only TV in the bustees, Kali Grounds huts were empty of all occupants. Belram Mukkadam and the shoemaker Iqbal had stacked several of the teahouse tables on top of one another and covered them with a large white sheet, a symbol of purity and mourning, and then decorated their makeshift altar with garlands of yellow marigold and jasmine flowers. Then they had positioned the set high enough for everyone to see the screen.
Since the early hours of the morning, the crowd had been gathering in silence outside the teahouse: men on one side, women and children on the other. Before the ceremony started, they watched silently as representatives of the country’s different religions succeeded one another, reciting prayers and appealing for forgiveness and tolerance.
Suddenly, a murmur rose from the assembly. Wide-eyed, the residents of the Kali Grounds were witnessing an historic event: the transportation to the funeral pyre of the woman, who, only the previous day, had ruled the country. The litter, covered with a bed of rose petals, jasmine flowers and garlands of marigolds, filled the screen. Indira Gandhi’s face, with the veil of her red cotton sari set like a halo around it, emerged from an ocean of flowers. With her eyes closed and her features relaxed, she radiated an unusual serenity. The screen showed hundreds of thousands