My Day With Dominique Lapierre — The Friend Who Forgot My Name But Not My City

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My Day With Dominique Lapierre — The Friend Who Forgot My Name But Not My City

It is not every day that life places you across the table from a man whose books have shaped the way an entire nation remembers its own tragedies. But on 9th September 2001, I had the rare privilege of spending a full day with Dominique Lapierre in Bhopal—an experience that still glows in memory like a warm lamp.

Dominique, known across India for Freedom at Midnight, Calcutta, The City of Joy and It Was Five Past Midnight in Bhopal, carried an unmistakable affection for our country. His writing had the honesty of a man who observed deeply and cared even more deeply.

He had come to Bhopal that week to release his book on the Union Carbide tragedy. Ironically, the book could not be released within the city because a section of local journalists insisted on cornering him over one issue—why the book did not mention anything about the then Chief Minister, Arjun Singh, during the night of the gas leak in 1984. Rumours had floated for years that he had left Bhopal on the crucial night between 2nd and 3rd December.

The tension grew, and the programme was abandoned.

As Executive Director of BHEL, Bhopal, I felt an obligation to let his research and voice be heard. So on that very day, 9th December 2001, I invited him to our Guest House to deliver the lecture he had prepared for the city.

The publisher from Manjul Publications whispered to me, “Sir, what he will speak now is the original lecture—the one no one got to hear.”

And so, in a quiet hall tucked inside the greenery of our campus, Dominique delivered his meticulously researched account. He had spoken to victims, doctors, factory technicians, and even senior officials who had first entered the plant after the leak. His analysis of how a pesticide experiment went horribly wrong was supported with facts, drawings, diagrams, and timelines he had collected over two years of work.

It was not a lecture—it was a moral document.

After the applause subsided, we moved to lunch at the Guest House. My wife had arranged a complete Western meal for him—soup, au gratin, grilled chicken, boiled vegetables, and a proper dessert.

Dominique settled into his chair with a sigh of relief.

“Ah,” he said, “after a long time I am eating a civilised lunch!”

I laughed. “But the newspapers say you love spicy Indian food!”

He leaned forward, eyes twinkling like a mischievous schoolboy.

“My friend from Calcutta,”—for he had started calling me that since morning—“I do love India, but tell me, why do you people insist on murdering perfectly innocent vegetables?”

I feigned indignation.

“Murder? Dominique, we give vegetables a second life! They enjoy their last moments in turmeric, cumin and mustard oil.”

He chuckled, pointing his fork at me.

“This boiled carrot tastes like carrot. In your system it would taste like… everything except carrot!”

To that, my wife calmly replied, “That is why Indians are rarely deficient in imagination.”

The table erupted in laughter.

A Brief Conversation About the Gas Leak

During lunch, I gently asked him, “Dominique, after hearing so many conflicting stories, what is the one thing that shocked you the most about that night?”

He paused, spoon halfway to his lips.

“That so many people died because the alarms were silenced,” he said quietly. “And because warnings were ignored for years. Technology failed, but human arrogance failed first.”

He had interviewed factory workers who told him of malfunctioning gauges, leaking valves, safety shortcuts, and the eerie silence that followed the first burst of gas.

“And the management?” I asked.

He shrugged, a heavy sadness in his eyes.

“Some saw it as an experiment gone wrong. They forgot that the experiment was happening over a city of a million sleeping souls.”

His voice carried the weight of a man who had spent months walking through the lanes of Old Bhopal, listening to coughing victims and widows who still searched for answers.

His Heart Was Always in India

It is common knowledge that Dominique and his wife adopted a village in Bengal, and the royalties from The City of Joy funded schools, clinics, and basic infrastructure there. That sense of giving—effortless, unadvertised—was what made India love him.

A Surprise Reunion at the Airport

Years later, in January 2003, I was travelling from Bhopal to Kolkata via Mumbai. At the airport, I spotted a familiar face surrounded by admirers. I smiled, thinking he would never recognise me.

Suddenly, he turned, his eyes lit up, and he came hurrying towards me.

“My friend from Kolkata!” he shouted.

Of course, he had forgotten my name—but not the warmth of that day.

And I felt strangely elated. Because sometimes relationships don’t need exact names; they only need the memory of shared kindness.

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