The cremator

The pyre used to burn day and night, says Shivcharan Dhaulpuria

SEVENTEEN Ashoka trees stand tall in a small park on Chola Road. Had Shivcharan Dhaulpuria not seen it himself, he would never have believed what the manicured grass hides.

Twenty-five years ago, where Dhaulpuria now stands, bodies were cremated in batches of 200 and more. “We did not have time for individual burials. Bodies came from hospitals in trucks and we had to cremate them fast,” says Dhaulpuria, whose family has been working at the Chola cemetery near the Union Carbide factory for three generations.

For the first few minutes on the night of the gas leak, Shivcharan—who had just gone to bed—thought it was smoke from the hawan kund in the crematorium that was causing his eyes and throat to burn.

“It was like someone had put chilies in my eyes. When we came out, everyone was running towards the railway station. When I heard someone shout “tanki fuut gayi (the tank has burst)”, I decided to take my wife, children and parents to Sujalpur. I left them with my relatives and came back to work as bodies had to be cremated. We had to cremate them quickly and send the remains to be immersed in the Narmada,” he says.

Bodies of over 3,000 victims, who died in the first 24 hours, were cremated at Chola cemetery and the Badebaag Shamshaan Bhumi. The hospitals separated bodies of Hindu and Muslim victims.

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