The owner laughed. "How do you get them out? Drill a straw from 150 feet above? They’ll drown before you hit rock."
Gill tied a rope around his own waist. "I do." Mission Raniganj
The first miner—a frail old man—was strapped into the capsule. Gill signaled the winch operator. The capsule rose. One foot. Ten feet. Fifty feet. Then it jammed. The owner laughed
Gill smiled. "Sardarji is here. Now, listen carefully. No pushing. The oldest first. Then the weakest. Then the rest. You will go alone. You will feel like you are dying. But you will not." They’ll drown before you hit rock
The first problem was time. The trapped miners had only flashlights and a single telephone line that still crackled with static. Their voices, relayed up, were haunted: "The water is rising. We can see the ceiling getting closer. We're singing hymns."
On the fourth day, as the country watched on grainy black-and-white TV, the drill bit punched through. A roar went up from the crowd. But then—silence. Had they hit water? Had they crushed the men?