THE WOMEN WHO WALKED: 1989

‘We’ll go to see the PM.’

It was Rashida’s idea, this much everyone agrees. When she said this, all of us were happy. Yes, of course. The Prime Minister. He’ll listen to us. It was our only way to be heard.

‘Where’s the Prime Minister?’

‘He has a so-big house in Delhi.’

‘Where is Delhi?’

Nobody knew for sure, but a couple of people reckoned it was quite a way off.

‘How will we get there?’

Rashida and Champa Devi said, ‘We have no transport, so we will have to walk. It will show we’re serious. We’ll all go together.’

‘When?’

‘As soon as possible.’

‘Tomorrow then.’

We agreed to meet early next morning and set out. We’d bring a bit of food and, if anyone had any, a little money might come in handy.

After the angels

When the angel of death opened its wings over our city, bodies were piled in heaps in the streets and our old lives were gone.

Most of us worked hard at heavy manual jobs. Now we weren’t able to do that work any longer. We were ill, breathless, coughing all the time. Our children were ill. We had no money for medicines or food.

What do you do when there’s no food? You bind a cloth tightly round your middle to fool your stomach. If your children cry with hunger you fill their tummies with water. But how long can you live like that?

A promise of work

Then the state government got a large amount of money from Delhi to create jobs for gas-affected people.

It decided to train some women to work in one of its printing presses. About 100 of us took up the offer. We trained for four months on a stipend of Rs 150 a month (about £2), not enough to make ends meet. The bosses told us that when qualified we’d earn a proper salary, but after the training they said there were no jobs. There had never been any. We might as well have trained to be astronauts.

That was when Rashida and Champa Devi spoke up. What was the point of training us, they asked, if there was no work. The bosses said we should be grateful to be trained at all. If we wanted to work we should set up our own printing press.

So we made a petition and took it round to the Chief Minister’s office. After some time came a reply that we would be employed in the State Industrial Corporation. We should just show up, work would be given.

We were thrilled. On the appointed day, we went to the gates of the factory and waited. Come back tomorrow, they said. Next day it was the same story. After a month we had had two days’ work and earned each Rs 6–12 (8p–12p).

Did no one explain to you, they said, that you are piece workers, here on sufferance? You have no right to demand anything.

We get angry and wise . . .

Well, we’d had enough of excuses and of being pushed around and lied to. We warned the civil servants and bosses, look, day after day we waited outside your gates, you people shut your eyes and ears. You have hearts of stone. So be it. We’ll take direct action and don’t say we didn’t warn you.

The officials relented and began giving us work. For the next two and a half years we earned Rs 10–12 a day – about 12p.

. . . and angrier and wiser

Around this time, someone found out about a thing called the Factories Act and Minimum Wages Act.

It turned out that we had not been paid a proper rate, plus during that period we were underpaid, the press made a profit of 400,000 rupees.

We went to the bosses and asked for our rights: minimum wages and regular employment. We asked to be treated according to the law.

The bosses were shocked, they said, disturbed by our ingratitude, but they would be generous, would try to find us a bit more work and offer a small increase in wages.

So we told them what they could do with such generosity.

We learn politics

We did not know how to protest, but we had heard of sit-ins, so we went to the state assembly and sat and slept there for several days.

This had no effect.

People gave us new ideas and we tried rallies, roadblocks and even a procession at night with burning torches, which the children enjoyed very much. But none of this worked.

Then we got wind that the Chief Minister was canvassing for election in a particular region. We issued a statement saying that half of us would go there and canvass against the Chief Minister, while the rest protested at his office.

This had a magical effect.

The Chief Minister immediately instructed that our needs be met – salary, everything. Wages rising to Rs 535 a month.

We are ungrateful

In our ignorance, call it innocence if you prefer, we held out for what the law prescribed, a salary of Rs 2700 a month for a skilled worker, and a proper employment contract.

A lot of the officials were horrified. Again, we had shown ingratitude. It began to dawn on us that they, coming from more affluent backgrounds than us, did not think of us as deserving of the same rights they enjoyed. Maybe that – or they didn’t like being pushed around by a lot of women like us.

So, we gathered one sunrise in the summer of 1989 for the grand send-off from our families, who thought us mad but garlanded us with marigolds and roses.

We did not know how far Delhi was, nor the way there, nor how long it would take. We didn’t know what we’d eat or where we’d sleep. We did not know how tough it would be. Many of us had our kids with us. There were a few men too. Each of us carried a small bag with a few necessaries: a blanket, bedspread, spare clothes.

Soon, the children and many of us women had blisters on our feet. We’d treat them with herbs found along the way. At night, exhausted, we forced ourselves to cook and eat.

No one said, ‘Let’s go back.’

At first, we walked 8–10 kilometres per day. As time passed the pace picked up and we could walk 35–40 km per day, kids and all.

We got up early, about 3 a.m., to escape the cruel sun. When our sandals wore out we tied leaves to the soles of our feet. Often people would walk with us from one village to the next as a way of showing support.

The road passed through some wild places. Far from anywhere, we’d sleep in the grass, a wide bedroom under the starry sky, three or four of us keeping watch over the rest.

In the dawn we were shocked to see dead scorpions and snakes killed on the road during the night. Many more must have passed among us as we slept and we never knew . . .

No food or money

Most of us had brought only a small amount of money. When it was spent, the women sold ornaments to get cash for medicines and food for the children.

We had to beg for food from villages where we stopped for the night. Country folk are extraordinarily kind. Some days they would cook for us or give us food to cook ourselves.

Telling our story

Occasionally when we begged we would be scolded, ‘You seem healthy and capable, can’t you work for food like everyone else?’

Or, more cynically, ‘You must have received good compensation from the government after the gas disaster. Why are you still making more demands?’

Then we would try and explain what had really happened in Bhopal. How people were ill and the compensation was a joke. We told of having to pay officials. People were angry then and they helped us.

Sometimes the local police would arrange food for us and put us up in government houses with guards for our protection.

We are all one

We walked in small groups – the quicker ones would leave pounded rice on the road to mark the way.

We were Hindus and Muslims, but in our group all differences melted away – we cooked together, ate together, shared our troubles and slept side by side. We began bonding with one another and the people we met saw no differences among us.

We were one.

During the walk, the group are warned that there are groups of ‘killer’ bandits, or dacoits, in the locality . . .

We weren’t scared. Who would waste time robbing people who had nothing?

The dacoits got to hear about us and sent word that they would not touch a hair of our heads.

The local police inspector said he believed this, but just to be sure, he and his men walked alongside us for almost 40 km.

At the edge of his territory, he parted from us in tears. ‘If I had the power, I would have agreed to all your demands long ago and saved you this trouble.’

Pain and loss

During the days of our walk, those who were menstruating were the worst sufferers. We used folded cloths as pads and walking with a cloth created rashes on the tender skin of the upper thighs. Walking became extremely painful, but we kept on.

Yashoda, who was five months pregnant, tragically lost twins she was carrying soon after we got to Agra.

And then there was Abeeda, who would faint every few kilometres. Gendabai’s 7-year-old son Rajendar was sick during the journey. His head would reel and his legs would give way under him.

We keep on

In spite of all the hardships, not once did anyone say, ‘Enough, let’s go back.’

After crossing twelve districts in four states in 33 days, we finally reached Delhi.

We were utterly exhausted, but our problems weren’t over. We did not know where India Gate was or how to meet the PM.

We were finally told Rajiv Gandhi was out of town.

Unlike the villagers who had supported us, Delhi was cold. Nobody offered to help us. Instead, they sneered at us. ‘What makes you think the Prime Minister of India would want to meet women like you?’

Tricked by our MP

We were camped on the grass by India Gate. The rains were due and no one would meet us.

Then our MP came along. He talked us into going back to Bhopal and assured us that once we got back, matters would be resolved. He promised personally to take care of our case and get our demands met. We trusted him and decided to go home.

All his promises he broke.

We won’t be fooled again

We are together still and we now know that we should not have come back empty-handed, but our long march had turned us into gritty, determined fighters.

We even got our audience with Rajiv Gandhi. He was in Bhopal at a public meeting. We forced our way in. After walking all the way to Delhi to meet him, were we going to let a few fat police wallahs stand in our way?

Rajiv Gandhi apologized to us. He said, ‘I didn’t know you had come all the way from Bhopal on foot to meet me. If I had known, I would have come to India Gate to meet you myself.’

Oh yes. A likely story.

In 2006 a group from Bhopal, mainly of women and including Rashida Bi, walk to Delhi once again to see Prime Minister Manmohan Singh, demanding the basic right to clean water for their families. They find support from many people including students and trades unionists and Amnesty International. In one demonstration in Delhi, Sajida Bano, fifty-five, whose husband and son were killed by the gas, is beaten and kicked by police before ending up in hospital.

As the PM continues to ignore them, two months after leaving home they stage a die-in on a street in Delhi and some of the women go on hunger strike. The temperature is over 100 degrees Fahrenheit. Finally, the PM promises to meet four of their six demands. But at any mention of anything which would affect trade with Dow Chemical, the PM puts his hands over his ears. After five days the strike is called off. Some of the women protesting outside are locked up and beaten.

None of these promises was kept by the government.

All this, for clean water.

Once again – they are still waiting.