Five Past Midnight in Bhopal (10 page)

In April of 1962, the American management of Carbide revealed the nature and scope of its new projects in a full-page advertisement
in
National Geographic
magazine. Entitled “Science Helps to Build a New India,” the illustration was meant to be allegorical. It depicted a dark-skinned,
emaciated peasant working obviously infertile soil with the aid of a primitive plow drawn by two lean oxen. Two women in saris
with a pitcher of water and a basket on their heads, surveyed the scene. In the background appeared the waters of a mighty
river, the Ganges. Just beyond the sacred river, glittering with a thousand fires in the sunlight, arose the gilded structures
of a gigantic chemical complex with its towers, chimneys, pipework and tanks. Above it, in the upper half of the picture,
a light-skinned hand emerged from the orange sky. Between thumb and index finger it was holding a test tube full of a red
liquid, which it was pouring over the peasant and his plow. Carbide had no doubt drawn its inspiration from the scene on the
ceiling of the Sistine Chapel in which Michelangelo portrays the hand of God touching Adam’s to give him life. Under the heading,
“A Hand for the Future,” the company delivered its message in the space of a single paragraph:

Cattle working in the fields … the eternal River Ganges … elephants caparisoned with jewels … Today these symbols of ancient
India coexist with a new vision, that of modern industry. India has built factories to strengthen its economy and provide
its four hundred and fifty million people with the promise of a bright future. But India needs the technological knowledge
of the Western world. That is why Union Carbide, working with Indian engineers and technicians, has made its scientific resources
available to help construct a large plant to produce chemical products and plastic goods near Bombay. All over the free world,
Union Carbide has undertaken to build plants to manufacture chemical products, plastic goods, gases and alloys. Union Carbide’s
collaborators are proud to be able to share their knowledge and skills with the citizens of this great country.

This piece of purple prose concluded with an exhortation: “Write to us for a brochure entitled ‘The Exciting World of Union
Carbide.’ In it you’ll find out how our resources in the different domains of carbon, chemical products, gases, metals, plastic
goods and energy continue daily to work new wonders in your life.”

“New wonders in your life.” This eloquent promise was soon to find a spectacular opportunity for fulfillment. It was at a
time when India was trying desperately to banish the ancestral specter of famine. After the severe food shortages at the beginning
of the 1960s, the situation was at last improving. The source of this miracle was an apparently unassuming batch of Mexican
grain. Christened Sonora 63 by its creator, the American agronomist and future Nobel peace prize winner, Norman Borlang, the
grain produced a new variety of high-yielding corn. With heavy ears that were not susceptible to wind, light variation or
torrential monsoon rains, and short stems that were less greedy, this fast growing seed made it possible to have several harvests
a year on the same plot of land. It brought about a great change, the famous Green Revolution.

This innovation suffered serious constraints, however. In order for the high-yielding seeds to produce the multiple harvests
expected of them, they needed lots of water and fertilizer. In five years, between 1966 and 1971, the Green Revolution multiplied
India’s consumption of fertilizer by three. And that was not all. The very narrow genetic base of high-yield varieties and
the monoculture associated with them made the new crop ten times more vulnerable to disease and insects. Rice became the favorite
target for at least a hundred different species of predatory insects. Most devastating were the small flies known as green
leafhoppers. The stylets with which they sucked the sap from young shoots could destroy several acres of rice fields in a
few days. In the Punjab and other states, the invasion of a form of striped aphid decimated the cotton plantations. Against
this scourge, India had found itself virtually defenseless. In its desire to promote the country’s industrialization, the
government had encouraged the local production of pesticides. Faced with the enormity of demand, however, locally manufactured
products had shown themselves to be cruelly inadequate. What was more, a fair number contained either DDT or HCH (hexachlorocyclohexane),
substances considered so dangerous to flora, fauna and humans that a number of countries had banned their use.

Finding themselves unable to provide their peasants with a massive supply of effective pesticides, in 1966 Indian leaders
decided to turn to foreign manufacturers. Several companies, among them Carbide, were already established in the country.
The New York multinational was interested enough to dispatch one of its best scouts from its sales team to New Delhi. It chose
the young Argentinian agronomical engineer, Eduardo Muñoz. After all, hadn’t this engaging sales representative managed to
convert the whole of South America to the benefits of Sevin? Muñoz promptly proved himself up to the task by inaugurating
his mission with a masterstroke.

The legendary emperor Asoka who had spread the Buddha’s message of nonviolence throughout India would have been amazed. On
a winter evening in 1966, the hotel in New Delhi that bore his name welcomed the principal executives of Carbide’s Indian
subsidiary company along with a hundred of the highest officials from the Ministry of Agriculture and the Planning Commission.
These dignitaries had gathered to celebrate the quasi-historic agreement signed that afternoon at the Ministry of Agriculture
in front of a pack of journalists and photographers. The contract would arm Indian peasants against aphids and other insects
destroying their crops. To this end, it provided for the immediate importation of 1,200 tons of American Sevin. In return,
Carbide undertook to build a factory to make this same pesticide in India within five years. Eduardo Muñoz had negotiated
this agreement with a high-ranking official named Sardar Singh, who indicated he was impatient to see the first deliveries
arrive. He was, as his turban and bearded cheeks indicated, a Sikh, originally from the Punjab. The peasants of his community
had been the first victims of the marauding insects.

As chance would have it, the Carbide envoy was able to satisfy the hopes of his Indian partner sooner than anticipated. Discovering
that a cargo of 1,200 tons of Sevin destined for farmers in the locust-infested Nile Valley, was held up in the port of Alexandria
by overzealous customs officers, the Carbide envoy managed to have the ship diverted to Bombay. Two weeks later, the precious
Sevin was received there like a gift from heaven.

The euphoria subsided somewhat when it was discovered that the Sevin from the Egyptian ship was actually a concentrate that
could not be used until it had undergone appropriate preparation. In their own jargon, specialists called this process “formulation.”
It consisted of mixing the concentrate with sand or gypsum powder. Like the sugar added to the active substance in a medicine
to facilitate its consumption, the sand acts as a carrier for Sevin making it possible to either spread or spray the insecticide
as needed. There was no shortage of small industrial units in India that could carry out this transformation process. But
Muñoz had a better idea. Carbide itself would make its Sevin usable, by building its own formulation factory. No matter that
the Industrial Development and Regulation Act reserved the construction of this kind of plant for very small firms and only
those of Indian nationality, he knew he could comply tacitly with the law by finding someone to act as a front man.

Like anywhere else in the world, there is no shortage in India of intermediaries, agents, compradores prepared to act as go-betweens
for any kind of business. One morning in June 1967, a jolly little man turned up in Eduardo Muñoz’s office.

“My name is Santosh Dindayal,” he announced, “and I am a devotee of the cult of Krishna.” Taken aback by this mode of introduction,
the Argentinian offered his visitor a cigar. “I own numerous businesses,” the Indian went on. “I have a forestry development
company, a scooter concession, a cinema, a gas station. I’ve heard about your plan to build a pesticide factory.” At this
point in his account, the man assumed a slightly mysterious air. “Well, you see, it so happens that I have entrées all over
Bhopal.”

“Bhopal?” repeated Muñoz, to whom the place meant nothing.

“Yes. It’s the capital of the state of Madhya Pradesh,” the Indian continued. “The state government is eager to develop its
industry. It could well be useful for your project.”

Drawing vigorously on his cigar, the little man explained that the people running Madhya Pradesh had set aside an area for
industrial development on vacant land north of the capital.

“What I’m proposing is that I apply in my name for a license to construct a plant that can transform the Sevin your friends
have imported into a product that can be used on crops. The cost of such an undertaking shouldn’t be more than fifty thousand
dollars. We can sign a partnership contract together. You do the work on the factory and then you can give me a proportion
of the proceeds.”

The Argentinian was so pleased he nearly swallowed his cigar. The proposal was an excellent first step in the larger industrial
venture he was counting on launching. It would provide an immediate opportunity to make Indian farmers appreciate the benefits
of Sevin, and give the engineers in their research departments in South Charleston time to come up with the large pesticide
plant that the Indian government seemed to want to see built on its land. Suddenly, however, a question sprang to mind.

“By the way, Mr. Dindayal, where is this town of yours, Bhopal?”

The Indian smiled and pointed proudly to his chest. “In the very heart of India, dear Mr. Muñoz.”

The heart of India! The expression excited the handsome Argentinian. Taking the Indian with him as navigator, he set off at
once in his gray Mark VII Jaguar for the heart of the country. To him it was like arriving “in a large village.” The industrial
zone designated by the government lay just over a mile from the city center, and a little more than half a mile from the train
station. In the past, it had been the site of the royal stables for the rulers of Bhopal. The troops of the sultana infantry
had used it as a parade ground. The dark color of the soil accounted for the name of the place: Kali Grounds, “
kali
” meaning “black.” But the term may also have derived from the color of the blood with which the earth was saturated. For
it was here that, before thousands of spectators, the kingdom’s executioners used to lop off the heads of those whom the Islamic
sharia
^*
had condemned to death.

The Argentinian was not likely to be put off by such morbid associations; two days’ exploring had convinced him. This town
of Bhopal held all the winning cards: a central location, an excellent road and railway system, and abundant electricity and
water supplies. As for the Kali Grounds, in his eyes they held yet another trump: the string of huts and hovels extending
along their boundaries promised to provide a plentiful workforce.