It is a welcome sight to see in Delhi, that
the powers that be still care enough about the people so as to provide them
with entertainment on the streets. I was myself witness to one of these
“happenings” today at the FTII student's protest against Gajendra Chauhan's
position at the institute. It was for all practical purposes, a wholesome piece
of family entertainment, with drama, pathos, comedy and a successful resolution
for your narrator. It was even in three acts. Here is the comedy of The Protest
at Shastri Bhavan.
…
It
is 1:30 pm at Shastri Bhavan opposite the press club, and the protesters are
trickling in, in groups of ones and
twos. Some hold placards, some come with bottles of water, and one hirsute
fellow is holding a drum. Some are drinking chai and smoking cigarettes,
taking care of nerves. I am off to the side, smoking a cigarette, wearing
corduroy pants and a panama hat. Observing and looking good at the same time comes naturally.
It
is sweltering as only the sandstone jungle of the central secretariat in the
high noon sun can be. People are talking amongst themselves and making
introductions, while the CRP wallas sit
in the shade, armed with clear plastic lathis, looking at the
protesters-to-be with beady eyes. As time goes on, the amount of protesters
builds up and soon there are around 60 odd folk armed with placards, while a
drummer holds his drum on the ready.
There
are journalists around interviewing the folk, asking them about their opinions
on everything under the planet, and coming back to the topic of Modi and FTII.
The scene is set for a protest to begin. Camera crews are on the ready, and the
CRP Jawaans start limbering up. Lathi-charges are always fun when
you are on the delivering side, and you don't want to pull a muscle.
In one collective movement, the group moves
to the entry of Shastri Bhavan and stands on the ready, throats are being
massaged, drums tightened, placards adjusted.
…
And
then It begins. Strangely silent. I move forward, and realise that the It is
actually a photoshoot, because the TV crews are giving the press photographers
some time to do their work. Professional courtesies go a long way in the business
of making news. When a suitable amount of of photos with the protesters looking
justly miffed, angry, and protesting are
taken in rapid succession, then the TV crews move in.
The
chants start from one side, with the usual “hamari maangein poori karo”
starting it off. The protesters build up a momentum and the chanting becomes
faster. Out from the back come members of the youth parties, and they start
chanting on the other side.
“INQLAAB ZINDABAAD; ZINDABAAD ZINDAABAD”
Suddenly
a wave develops with sides alternating chants and outdoing each other on
volume. Newer and newer chants of “Halla Bol” are screamed, and more and
more complex lines are yelled. The rest try to keep up. It seems that the
various groups are trying to gauge the other groups in the protest and their
volume.
For
the convenience of the general public, the separate groups are colour coded.
The comrades are wearing red kurtas and jeans, holding drums with the hammer
and sickle spray painted on them. The youth party members are wearing t-shirts
and jeans. The JNU students are in a motley array of ethnic and western
clothing, united in the disparity of style. The FTII alumni are gaudy and
multicoloured, distinguished by their aviators and other accouterments of sun
protection. The colour coding shows that while the FTII wallahs are
shouting for the FTII rights, the comrades and the youth party members are
shouting against the party in power.
The
drummer suddenly hits the groove with the party wallah chant leader, and the
chants turn into songs rather then screams. The crowd moves in making it a
circle, and in the middle are the TV crews furiously taking interviews upon
interviews with the people on the front line of the protest. The chants change,
from ones demanding the rights of FTII students to chants against Modi and Arun
Jaitley, loudly inviting him out to meet the protesters. One side drowns out
the other, and the other side tries to come back with renewed vigor. The
protest has turned into a sauve qui peut and agendas are pouring forth
faster then the drummers and the TV reporters can keep up.
Suddenly,
out of nowhere an empty Delhi Transport bus emerges. It has been but 20 minutes
since the protest started. There is a line of CRP jawaans on the gate
blocking entry. More CRP Jawaans come from the side, and suddenly the
more aware members of the protesters realise that their goose is cooked. I see
the cops moving in, and I nonchalantly start moving back and stand to the side.
I have never been to jail and have no intention of being taken into custody
today.
Suddenly
CRP wallahs rush from my side, and the older members of the protesters
start making everyone sit down. Hands are linked and the Delhi police steps in,
pulling people up and into the bus. It starts off slow, with people fighting
and screaming, but soon more people join into the fray. People are being pulled
by their clothes, kicked, and dragged kicking and screaming. The ones inside
the bus are poking their entire torsos out of the windows and chanting and beating
on their spray painted drums. Flags are waving everywhere as the crowd sitting
slowly dwindles, more and more are forced into the bus.
There
is a rotund fellow with his handlebar mustache askew, who is gripping to a pole
on the pavement with all his might. Three Delhi police constables physically
pry him off the pole and carry him horizontal to the bus, and for a instant he
seems he is crowd surfing. The effect is ruined because he and everyone in the
bus are cussing out loud at the cops.
People
are now jumping on the bus on their own volition. It seems the entire party is
on the bus and the protest just got a moving platform to parade around the
area. Some people are screaming obscenities against Delhi police, some are
smiling for the cameras, some are chanting for FTII rights, and there is a
fellow still banging on the drum.
The
bus peels away and the chants from the bus fade into the distance, and an
unnatural quiet surrounds the area.
...
I
am standing on the side, stunned, my cigarette hanging dumbly from my lips, and
I see a small group of the senior protesters on the side. Grey haired and
dressed well, they saw the whole protest happen, and their presence was tacit
support. They are one member short, the rotund fellow with the askew mustache
is already on his way to the police station.
They
accost an inspector of the Delhi police and start telling him off. He responds
by saying that section 144 was put in action, and the protesters needed
permission and were violent. A matronly old lady with steel gray hair starts
chastising him. “The protesters were anything but violent. This is a
miscarriage of justice”. He keeps on repeating that they needed permission, and
from behind me a fellow wryly admits that the permission granting authorities
were the ones against whom the protest was. Neither the older protesters not
the cops are making any headway, just repeating the same thing over and over.
“The protesters did nothing wrong” “we are just doing our job. You have a
problem, talk to the boss.”
I
knew the mistake the protesters had made. If only they had dressed up like Mahabharat
characters and used Molotov cocktails,
then the entire police brutality would have been worth it. What is the point of
being hauled in for a simple protest? If you have to go, go in style. As I am
musing on more entertaining strategies for protest and institutional critique,
another bus pulls in, this one empty too. A police constable grabs my arm and
tells me to start walking. While I tell him that I was standing and just
smoking a cigarette, he turns around, and catches another fellow around my age
by his scruff. We both are ceremoniously dumped into the bus. I call the cop a
crypto-fascist, but he does not register.
At
this time I realise that this is not a time for wry observations and distant
cynicism, so I call a friend to come and get me, and post bail if needed. The
folk in the back are loudly discussing what is going to happen and what has
been going on. As I settle down into my surprisingly comfortable chair, comes
the cavalry. Out from the market in front of the press club comes a group of 5
people with red stars on their flag, a big banner proclaiming support and a
drum. Their chants are new, and fill the silence of the area.
Without
missing a beat, the policemen turn around and push them into the bus. They
gladly step in, and poke their torsos out of the windows and gaily fly their
flags high, singing songs and calling for “Inqlaab”. The bus starts
moving and gets to the Parliament Street Police Station. The CRP starts moving
out the protesters, and I am the last to move.
As
I near the driver, he stops me, and asks me what was wrong. I tell him I was
smoking and got picked up. He tells me to stay quiet and sit down behind him as
he turns on the engine. A couple of cops come in and ask me to get off, but the
driver protests my innocence. He is convinced I am on the straight and narrow
because of my pants and the hat.
The
CRP cops outside, 5 of them, with vicious smiles on their face tell me to come
out. I protest that I was just smoking.
They tell me I can smoke inside, they will even provide chai. While I am
tempted to take them up on their offer, I am aware that police chai
generally leaves a welt or two on the backside.
I
have no choice, I start walking towards the station.
There
is no one around me, but I am walking towards the inner gate of the police
station. If the fashion is to court arrest, who am I to stop? When in Rome... I
turn to the gate and see the protesters in a courtyard. There is a tree with
ample shade, and they are in a circle, chanting, flags flying high. They are
letting lose with the chants, sparing no one. While the radical bonhomie and
protesting in unity and comradely good fellowship is a charming thought, I decide
that I would do better not in the hands of the police. Self preservation wins
out. With a smart about turn, learned through years of marching in school, I
turn around and start walking out of the station. A cop stops me, and before he
can say anything, I pull out a notepad, and ask him how many did they get. Over
a hundred, he replies. With a nod and a tip of the hat, I walk out, free. It
has been less then an hour since the protest started.
…
I
get back home, and take a bath, because it was hotter then the hinges of hell
in the bus and in the protest. Call
Kislay, one of the leaders of the protest. As of 6 pm, they are still in
the police station, detained for breaking a law they didn't know about, by law
enforcement doing their job with perverse gusto, ordered around and
dissatisfied by a government hell bent on enforcing only what it thinks is
right, and crushing down dissent with an iron foot.
No comments:
Post a Comment