Bhopal, India – Triveni Sonani starts her working day at 9am when she opens the gates of Oriya Basti school and welcomes the children of the neighbourhood into the classroom for another day of learning.
On this sunny December morning, she begins by settling the children into their spots, instructing them to open their books as she prepares to teach them multiplication.
The sole classroom is a simple space – a badly weathered tin roof and walls that are half-painted and partly unplastered. Most of the pupils sit on a few old wooden benches lining the walls, while some sit on thin mats on the concrete floor, their notebooks spread out in front of them, as sunlight streams through the gaps in the roof. Next door is a small but basic library – called the “Anand Library” – that the children can use.
As the lesson progresses, sounds of motorbikes revving, stray cows mooing and vendors calling out their wares drift into the room, mixing with the hum of children reading aloud.
“They love this part of the day,” says Sonani, the school’s only teacher. Her gaze turns to the children and a mural they have painted on the crumbling wall – a rising sun, its rays a seeming symbol of hope in a community burdened by hardship.
For decades, Oriya Basti has struggled in the shadow of the Bhopal gas tragedy, with little done to improve the lives of its people.
December marks the 40th anniversary of the world’s deadliest industrial disaster, which forever changed the lives of thousands in this community. Just 4km (2.5 miles) from Oriya Basti, a small community in Bhopal, sits the now-abandoned Union Carbide factory, where a leak of methyl isocyanate gas on the night of December 2 to December 3, 1984 killed more than 25,000 people and left at least half a million with lasting health issues.
Four decades after the disaster, justice remains elusive. No senior company executives of the US chemicals company have been held accountable. In 2010, seven Indian managers, including Keshub Mahindra, the then-chairman of the company’s Indian arm, were found guilty of causing death by negligence. They were fined the equivalent of $2,100 each and sentenced to two years in prison. But they were immediately released on bail and never served time.
The local communities worst affected by the tragedy have largely been left to fend for themselves ever since.
In Oriya Basti, the lanes are still full of potholes, turning into slushy messes during the rain. Houses are made of flimsy tin sheets and old bricks, their walls cracked and stained with damp.
Open drains run alongside the streets, offering little protection from diseases that the already weak healthcare system in the area cannot handle.
Power cuts are frequent, and clean water is a rare luxury, often arriving in tanker trucks that see families scrambling to fill their buckets.
Oriya Basti school – also fondly known as the “barefoot school” because many of its children attend without slippers or shoes, as their families cannot afford to buy them – is one chink of light to have come out of the disaster.
“Oriya Basti school was founded with the vision of empowering the underserved. It played an important role in ensuring that the children of gas tragedy survivors did not become another casualty of the disaster,” says Sonani.
Currently, about 30 children, aged 6 to 14, attend. The school was founded in 2000 by the Sambhavna Trust, a charity established in 1995 to support the gas leak survivors. Over the years, the school has educated about 300 children.
The school is supported mainly through royalties from the book about the catastrophe, Five Past Midnight in Bhopal by Dominique Lapierre, along with donations from individuals.
‘Fighting for air’
The Bhopal gas leak disaster left entire families struggling, with survivors suffering from long-term breathing difficulties, vision loss and genetic issues they say have been passed down to their children and grandchildren.
“Growing up, I saw how the gas leak affected my parents and grandparents,” says Jaishree Pradhan, a 23-year-old nursing graduate from People’s College Of Nursing & Research Centre, part of People’s University Bhopal, and a former pupil of the barefoot school.
She recalls how her grandparents struggled with constant coughing and shortness of breath as if they were always “fighting for air”. “I remember them waking up in the mornings, rubbing their eyes, trying to shake off the blurry vision that would last for hours. It was like everything was out of focus, and no matter what they did, they couldn’t clear it up,” says Pradhan. “Seeing them suffer like that pushed me to become a nurse.”
For many in Oriya Basti, finding stable work is extremely tough. Most adults work as labourers, ragpickers or roadside vendors, earning just enough to get by.
“My parents are daily wage earners,” says Sujit Bagh. “I never wanted to end up like them, so I was determined to study. But little did I know, I was also affected by the gas leak.”
Now 24, Sujit – also a former pupil of the barefoot school – is studying for an MA in History, with hopes of pursuing a PhD and becoming a professor. Even though he was born after the tragedy, Sujit says he has always struggled with concentration, and suffers from frequent headaches and fatigue. He believes these problems are the result of the long-term health effects passed down from survivors of the gas leak. “It’s tough,” he says, “but I keep going, because education is the only way I see out of this.”
Dr Anwari Shali, 80, a physician based in Qazi Camp, a few kilometres from the Union Carbide factory, was among the first doctors to set up a clinic in the area after the 1984 tragedy. Speaking about the persistent health challenges the community has faced over the years, she says: “Children here have weak immunity, but long-term generational effects of the disaster on their health remain unclear. Menstrual disorders are also common among young women aged between 19 to 28, largely due to poor hygiene and inadequate nutrition in these slum areas.”
Education is what, for the past 13 years, Triveni Sonani has been trying to provide to the children of Oriya Basti, despite earning a meagre 3,700 rupees ($44) per month and receiving only limited funding.
“We have no electricity, no proper library, no blackboards, and barely enough seating for the students,” she explains.
Nevertheless, the parents who survived the gas tragedy hold the school in high regard for what it provides to the community.
Many people live hand-to-mouth here, struggling to afford basic necessities like food, clothing, and medicine. Even a simple pair of shoes for their children is beyond reach.
“The tragedy stripped us of almost everything – basic necessities became a struggle, and education felt like a luxury,” says Neelam Pradhan, the mother of Jaishree. “The school became a beacon of hope, offering children a safe space to learn and rebuild their lives.”
She is proud that this school has shaped young people who now have good jobs in companies and hospitals. Despite their success, however, “none wish to remain in the community – they all dream of moving out,” says Pradham.
When survival is a battle with bureaucracy
Rinki Sonani, a 22-year-old student of mechanical engineering at Bansal College in Bhopal and also a former student of the school, recalls her childhood.
“I remember the frayed edges of our uniforms, the patches on our school bags, and the worn-out shoes we made do with,” she says. “Some of our notebooks were dog-eared, their covers barely hanging on, and some of us had to use old scraps of paper.”
Rinki has been lucky – dreams of a higher education, here, still feel out of reach for most people. Some students manage to secure student loans from banks and push through, but they are the exception. Most find themselves at a standstill, their potential shadowed by circumstances beyond their control.
For 19-year-old Ashtmi Thackeray, a dream of becoming a lawyer was driven by her family’s struggle against a system that, she believes, failed them.
When her father, a railway worker who Ashtmi is no longer in touch with, fell ill as a result of drug addiction and lost his job in 2009, survival became a battle with bureaucracy. Months of futile trips to government offices seeking financial support led nowhere, as they were repeatedly told their paperwork was incomplete.
Authorities issuing benefits often require documentation going back as far as 50 years, and many families in this community, originally migrating from Odisha to Madhya Pradesh, struggle to provide proof of ancestry, including records of their parents or grandparents.
One vital piece of documentation, a caste certificate proving her father belonged to a “scheduled tribe” or caste eligible for certain benefits – including income support and educational scholarships – could not be found. As was the case for many, it had been lost or destroyed in the aftermath of the tragedy. Ashtmi does not know what became of it.
Even their lawyer, who Ashtmi’s family says was “dismissive and unhelpful”, left them feeling powerless. Amid the frustration, Ashtmi’s mother’s words became her resolve: “Become a lawyer. Make sure no one else has to go through this.”
It is this resolve and common purpose that Sonani says compels her to continue with the school.
“I want this school to have a fresh start,” she says as she closes the gates at 4pm. “We desperately need new infrastructure. The children deserve classrooms where they can learn and grow without distractions. We also need specialised teachers for different subjects. Right now, I am the only one covering everything, and that’s not enough for the future they deserve.”
Her vision for the school goes beyond just fixing the physical space; she wants to create an environment where the children can reach their full potential. “Kids are smart these days,” Sonani says. “They ask me to teach with projectors and laptops, but I have to remind them that we just don’t have the funds for that right now. All we can offer them is hope – a hope for a better tomorrow.”
Despite these shortcomings, Sonani says she feels a sense of pride when she watches the children she once taught grow and thrive, stepping into leadership roles of their own. But beneath her pride, there remains a quiet worry. If they almost all leave the basti to chase better opportunities, who will be left to lift the community they leave behind?
She hopes that more will decide on a future like Ashtmi, who helps neighbours navigate complex forms and applications, translating official jargon into something they can understand. “It feels good to help,” Ashtmi says, her face softening into a smile. “I see so many people like us, lost in the system. They just need someone to stand with them.”
