Pandora's Diaries
On a cold December night, forty years ago, a deadly gas leaked from a Methyl Isocyanate (MIC) tank, forever altering the lives of those in Bhopal, a city at the heart of India. That night didn’t just change the course of a city's history, it reshaped countless lives and left a wound that continues to echo through time.
A lesser known fact about Bhopal is that it was ruled for over a hundred years by Begums who gave the city its lakes, architecture and palaces. What happened on the night of 2nd December, changed the way the city would be perceived thereon.
Being a proud Bhopali, I will boast my city for it’s scenery, calmness and it’s batolebazi (an actual concept where one exaggerates their claims to appear to have an upper hand, even though it is pragmatically not possible, like saying I can fight a tiger). These are the things I have grown up hearing and seeing, to my utter shock and disbelief, the same was not the case for most of the people I met outside of my city.
I would always go to my grandmother, my Dadi, and plead for her to tell me the story of what happened. It sounded dystopian, almost impossible. I recall the stories I grew up hearing, as they weren’t just stories; they were memories, alive with pain, each retelling an echo of the horror that once engulfed this city.
For those on the outside, the Bhopal they knew was a distant memory of tragedy, a symbol of failure by all authorities involved. But beyond that tragic night, Bhopal has always had a different, quieter identity.
The outskirts of the city were barely affected by MIC, the areas it did affect were mostly near the factory itself. The Union Carbide factory was situated right in the same area, Old Bhopal, a densely packed area with markets, a place where the heart of the city was, once upon a time.
Dadi would always tell me of how, in a frantic panic as the news spread that night, she packed a small canister of food for her family, and with no real understanding of what was happening, ran through the dark streets, trying to escape what she knew was a danger, though she could not yet grasp its full scale.
As I listened to her, I couldn’t help but feel the weight of her fear, the terror of not knowing what was happening to you, to your body, to your family. But as much as I tried to imagine the horror, I couldn’t fully grasp it. To me, it was a story, an event long past. But for her, for all of them who lived through that night, it was real.
Every retelling only added to the collective wound. I imagine how it must feel when all government mechanisms fail, when the leaders who take an oath to serve the people flee the city in the dark night, leaving all citizens to fend for themselves. An anarchy that was caused by the same leaders but only borne by the innocent civilians.
My mother often spoke of how my grandparents had heard that placing a wet handkerchief over your face could help reduce the effects of the gas, a piece of information that wasn’t widely known or acknowledged at the time. It wasn’t even certain if it would work. The burning sensation caused by MIC (methyl isocyanate) was unlike anything most people in Bhopal had ever experienced.
And for many, there was no reason to learn how to avoid it. Those who were aware of the factory's dangerous chemicals or who had some education on the matter, might have heard of such a remedy. The rest were left to fend for themselves. Each life, it seemed, was left to chance.
To this day, when a Bhopali speaks of that night, the pain feels as raw and immediate as if it happened just yesterday. It is woven into the very fabric of who we are, an indelible part of the city’s identity that will never fade. Even as we try to move forward, we cannot escape the weight of what was lost. The price we paid for the city we live in today is one we will never forget. Yet, one cannot help but ask: What about justice? What about the countless lives that were lost? What about the generations still suffering, their lives irreparably altered?
The official death tolls have always been a subject of debate, for the victims of that gas leak did not die in a single night, they continue to die, even today. In my view, compensation was the bare minimum that should have been done. But what angers me, what frustrates me beyond words, is the fact that those who should have been held accountable, the ones responsible for this catastrophe, walked away unscathed, their lives untouched by the tragedy they caused.
But amidst the tragedy, there’s a quiet pride in the resilience of the people of Bhopal. We remember, yes, but we also rebuild. The beauty of Bhopal still stands—its lakes still glisten in the morning sun, its palaces still echo with the grandeur of a bygone era, and its people, despite everything, continue to live with the same quiet strength, the same courage, the same batolebazi that once made the city a place of pride.
For me, growing up with these stories, the narrative wasn’t just about a night of horror. It was about a city that had borne witness to unimaginable pain, yet still stood tall, still found a way to glisten with happiness, serenity and calmness. It’s a city of survivors, each one carrying their own story of escape, of loss, of survival and it’s that story that tells you about us, that makes us Bhopalis, forever bound by what happened that night, yet not defined by it alone.
(Political Pandora does not directly edit Diary Entries. Pandora's Diaries is a platform meant for personal and creative expression.)
Lavanya Shrivastava (she/her) is the Head of Digital Engagement at Political Pandora. She is a student of International Business.
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