It was like any other night in the small town. The man made his way to the railway signal room. It was a night like any before. A chilly December night. Cold. Dark. He thought of his family on his way to work. Those thoughts kept him warm during his usual night shifts.
The man had lived in the small town almost his entire life. He had married there; had three kids. He worked with the railway department; and spent most of his time at the junction station of this small town. He enjoyed his conversations with his sons. He loved the dishes his wife would make him.
He pushed the signal room door. The warm conditioned air washed all over him as he made his way to his spot on the console. He chuckled as he remembered an incident with his wife that afternoon. I have a good life, he thought, but I still complain too much; he made a mental note, he should be more thankful to the Almighty, once in a while. Sometimes you gotta listen to your wife.
He was living a good life. His elder son was earning well. His daughter and younger son were getting perfect grades. He was glad and he eased a sigh of content as he eased into his plastic chair.
His colleagues were looking as anxious as they always had. He hurriedly tried to arrange his features into a more busy stance as he cleared the route for a train onto the small town's station.
There was static on the radio, the dogs howled, taps dripped, and clocks ticked as the night wore on silently.
Minutes passed by, then hours. The happy man went about his work as he settled into the usual humdrum of his routine work. He had worked in the railways for more than 20 years. Monotony is contagiously soothing for some people, he always used to say.
Suddenly the silence broke; There was some urgent voice on the radio, panicked and harsh.
Suddenly there were a lot of sounds. Suddenly someone ran into the cabin with a message that; wait; he could not hear what was said. Suddenly there was confusion and fear. Suddenly the phones were ringing all around. Suddenly he was the officer in-charge. Suddenly the world had turned upside down. Suddenly there was methyl isocyanate in the air of Bhopal.
The courier had collapsed on the floor vomiting and his pale limbs jerking spasmodically. Everyone had covered their faces with damp towels and handkerchiefs. Some ran towards their homes trying to save their families.
The man had only one objective, to not let any passenger train stop near Bhopal station. God knows what will happen then, he thought. He manned the signal station as his colleagues fell one after the other, subdued by the thought of their families or the deadly poison now coursing through their bloodstream. His eyes hurt, burned and stung. He cried silently, mutely wishing his wife would have run away with her son to someplace safe.
The trains kept coming through Bhopal Junction and he kept diverting them wherever he could. His arms ached, his throat singed, his eyes seemed ready to inflame on command. He did not stop, he couldn't stop. A signal station is never left unmanned. There should be atleast one person in the cabin.
The sun rose on 3000 bodies lying dead in Bhopal.
Someone came for him in the morning. He was relieved from his night shift. He could go home. He could barely see. He stumbled across the road. He could see his home. He was happy again. Thinking he would see his wife. His wife had not run away to safety. She had waited for her husband.
He was never to see her alive again. She would die later in a hospital, without an oxygen mask. How easy it is to rob a woman who is alone; especially when a loved one is dying. He lost his youngest son too. He would never see him again. He would never talk to his son. He would never taste his wife's cooking. All he was left at the end of the day was a commendation letter from the Government telling him how brave he had been.
The happy man would never be happy again.
And the night rolled silently by; there was static on the radio, the dogs howled, taps dripped, and clocks ticked as the night rolled silently by.
This is an actual story of a one Mr Rehman Patel; my grandfather, who was present in Bhopal on that fateful Night of December 2-3, 1984, the day he lost his wife and a son. He always lived with the regret that he did not go home that night.
