Below is an extract from Bhopal ’92: A Novel by Anupam Shrivastava, published by Speaking Tiger Books.
Midnight
December 8
I was being dragged towards the 12×10 storeroom attached to the dark corridor of the City Exchange building. My mind grappled unsuccessfully with fear and uncertainty. I could feel the sweat trickling down my forehead despite the cold winter night as I imagined the worst. Was Hassan seeking revenge for the disciplinary action I took against him? Or did he plan to harm me in the garb of the ongoing riots?
‘Bhopal ’92: A Novel,’ Anupam Shrivastava, Speaking Tiger Books, 2024.
As we entered the dark storeroom, I instinctively searched for an escape route but could see none. Hassan remained silent; staring at me with an eerie intensity.
‘What’s going on?’ I asked at last, trembling with panic.
He answered, almost in a whisper, ‘Sir, I’m not here to harm you.’
As I blinked in surprise, he explained, ‘The telephone exchange is under attack from rioters. Three members of the mob had approached me with a scheme to sabotage the exchange tonight. They wanted me to accompany them as they felt that I would have a score to settle with you after my suspension.’
Then, he subtly indicated that I take the chair behind a nearby table, and I gently pulled the chair towards me and sat down, trying to process the meaning of his words. Was it some kind of trick? Did he have a hidden agenda?
‘I was with them, but, as you know, I’ve been earning my livelihood from this organisation,’ he continued, leaning against the table that separated us. ‘Three of my associates have disrupted the electricity supply, which is why the power is out. They have somehow torn the fuse of the CTPT,’ he said.
‘Oh, my God,’ I exclaimed. He was referring to the transformer, technically known as the Current Transformer Potential Transformer, through which the 11 KV power supply to the exchange is routed. Unless the fuse was replaced, the exchange would soon stop operating. And this transformer was placed on a pole located outside the boundary wall of the exchange, which made the repair work complicated in the current situation.
In a daze, my eyes moved to take in the view beyond the single window in the storeroom. Outside, the soft glow of moonlight enveloped the exchange.
Then Hassan’s voice, still barely above a whisper, brought me back into the room. His body tensed slightly as he eyed the door, vigilant for any sound of movement. ‘I knew that you have been living inside the exchange for two days,’ he confided, his words hushed and urgent, ‘I separated myself from the others in the mob as soon as I could and hastened to warn you.’
I closed my eyes briefly, allowing his words to sink in. When I opened them to look at him, I expected him to say more.
With utmost sincerity, he pleaded, ‘I implore you to summon the army personnel stationed at the gate without delay. These individuals causing trouble are not hardened criminals; they are merely agitated due to the recent events in Ayodhya. Once confronted, they will quickly retreat. It is crucial that we act swiftly to protect our telephone exchange.’
His words resonated with truth, and pierced the stress that hung heavily in the storeroom. Without a moment’s hesitation, we moved swiftly and silently towards the main gate. Hassan trailed me like a shadow. At the gate, I wasted no time in alerting the army personnel stationed there. The urgency in my voice mirrored the exigency of our situation and the soldiers, trained and disciplined, promptly assembled, their eyes reflecting steely determination.
When they stood before me, they looked formidable, a force capable of defending the telephone exchange and its people. Clad in protective gear and armed with weapons, they exuded a confidence that bolstered my resolve.
Suddenly, a single gunshot shattered the silence, reverberating through the night. The sound seemed to echo for miles. The saboteurs, who had been inching closer to the Trunk Exchange, were caught off guard, their sinister plans to disrupt the communication services were disrupted.
The soldiers sprang into action, their training taking over. Another shot rang out, a warning to the perpetrators, a signal that their malicious intent would not go unchallenged. It created a commotion that filled the air, a testament to the determination of those protecting the exchange.
Faced with this unexpected resistance, the saboteurs faltered. Fear crept into their hearts, urging them to abandon their destructive mission. Like shadows fleeing from light, they hastily changed course, desperately seeking an escape route. Their figures, illuminated by the moonlight, appeared as fleeting silhouettes against the night sky. One of the army personnel aimed at the fleeting silhouettes and, through the corner of his eyes, sought affirmation to shoot. I tilted my head back, raised my chin, and shook my head, prompting the soldier to lower his aim. The three intruders, distinct in their desperation, frantically scaled the walls of the exchange and hastily raced away. They disappeared into the night, and then the sound of their footsteps faded away.
We watched their retreat, knowing that we had successfully thwarted a sinister plan. The telephone exchange stood strong, safeguarded by the bravery of the soldiers. As the adrenaline rush subsided, a sense of gratitude engulfed us. Gratitude for the swift response of the army personnel, and for the unity and resilience that had prevailed in adversity.
We stood there in the still night, the gibbous moon casting a gentle glow upon us, allowing ourselves a moment to absorb the significance of what had just transpired. The threat had been averted, but the need for vigilance remained; it was a reminder of the fragility and importance of the connections we often take for granted.
With a renewed sense of purpose, we turned our attention back to the telephone exchange, knowing that our duty to protect it was far from over. The night was not yet over. Hassan and I walked towards the engine room. He turned to me and said, ‘Sir, I am aware of my mistakes, but I couldn’t stand by as our workplace was destroyed. I am sorry for my past actions, and hope you will forgive me.’
I observed a man who had been granted a second chance and had consciously opted to do what was right despite his past wrongdoings. In that tender instant, I realised that the realm of possibilities expanded infinitely when we had a shared purpose. A deep sense of appreciation welled up within me for Hassan. In an intense and perilous situation, thanks to his timely alert, we had averted a catastrophe. In that moment, the dichotomy of boss and employee dissolved, leaving just two individuals united by a common objective—to safeguard the telephone exchange and ensure that the phone lines kept working despite the social unrest.
I placed my hand gently on his shoulder, and saw tears begin to form in Hassan’s eyes.
Anupam Shrivastava has over three decades of experience in the public-sector telecommunications industry. He was in Bhopal, his hometown, when the Babri Masjid was demolished in December 1992, and witnessed the aftermath. He retired as the Chairman and Managing Director of BSNL and lives in Delhi and Bhopal.
