The night riders - i absolutely loved Robin for letting us do this

The collision seemed inevitable. The open rear of the red truck seemed to grow closer and closer, the red metal glinting in the headlights’ glare. Just when metal would have met metal, the car, with five lives in it swerved.

The police night-patrol car, a swanky Hyundai Accent, could easily accommodate five people. The night ride had begun at 11.30 pm from Triplicane Police Station, with two patrol cars, four police officers, six student reporters and a sleeping Chennai.

“P is for Polite, O for Obedience, L for Lively, I for Integrity, C for Courtesy and E for Efficiency…,” slurred police officer Kandaswamy from the front seat, reeking of booze. Gangadharan, the driver seemed momentarily dazed rather than awake after the close encounter with the red truck.

“Did you know that almost 70 percent of people in this city consume liquor after evening,” exclaimed M.Thangaraju, Inspector-in-charge of the the Law and Order section. Husband-wife quarrels, drunken brawls, petty quarrels, eve-teasing, traffic congestion, crowds and road obstructions are the usual complaints that the police station fields. “We get around 5-8 calls per night. Most of them are complaints of drunken disturbances.”

The Triplicane or the D-1 police station has jurisdiction over three areas namely; Lok Nagar, SM Nagar and Ellispuram. These are essentially slum areas hence ‘sensitive’.

From 11.30 pm to 4.30 am, the soldiers of the night ride through the city, monitoring the streets and checking vehicles. The patrol drill starts at around half an hour short of midnight.12.30 to 4.30 are the ‘prevention of crime rounds’ when the patrol squads move across areas with whistling sirens and flashing lights. The awakening city calls for another round from 4.30 to 6.30, when the cars survey the milk booth areas and walking zones where usually people gather.

The Yellow Brigade ( police on motorbikes) patrol the city during the day and the Blue Brigade is the night patrol. Wing Patrol is different from Night Patrol. “Sometimes we get calls from the Police Control room informing us about some disturbance, for which the Wing Patrol is deputed. The Wing Patrol van is essentially for emergencies and is not permitted to be used unless.” Thangaraju said.

Assault, attempt to murder, murder are all classified under ‘hurt’ cases, which are handled by another Inspector who is in-charge of the Crime section. “Most of the cases that are petty offences are registered under the CP Act,” Thangaraju explained.

Besides dealing with domestic cruelty, the CP Act or the City Protection Act also deals with animal cruelty. Section 53 of the Act provides for penalty for cruel behaviour to animals, often utilized in the case of chickens. Owner negligence to animals, small residential enclosures for the animals all fall under the ‘cruelty’ category. “The live chickens are hung upside down on the bicycle and taken to the slaughter house,” In collaboration with the SPCA(Society for Prevention of Cruelty to Animals), the Police book the offenders, though the punishment is in the form of a fine. “We also conduct surprise checks,”

The Police also conduct ‘preventive arrests’ under section 109 CRPC. Ex-convicts are traced and remanded to police custody prior to Government elections, as a measure to prevent them from causing any hindrance. There are 17 rowdies under our jurisdiction. We even maintain a ‘rowdy book’ that is updated every month,” said Thangaraju.

By 11 pm, the Police station had received its prompt share of complaints. Two suicides were reported; one by immolation and the other, by hanging. Two accused in a burglary case were locked up inside.

A couple, accompanied by a thin, young man in blue jeans sat at the table, awaiting the girl’s father who was speaking in the Inspector’s cabin. The couple sat close to each, drawing each other’s presence for comfort. The girl’s eyes would anxiously dart towards her husband and immediately he would mutter a few words of reassurance and the girl would slide back into the chair, the doubt on her face momentarily cleared.

Sangeetha and Arul Raj were a newly wedded couple. “They both have got married against parental wishes and have now approached us for help as the girl’s father is trying to cause problems,” said a bald constable dismissively. “He is trying to convert her,” the girl’s father cried out referring to Arul Raj who was a Christian. Unperturbed by the emotional outburst, Inspector Thangaraju asked Sangeetha, “Are you a Christian now?” Vigourously nodding her head, in a loud voice that seemed unnatural for her thin frame, she exclaimed, “NO!”

At this Sangeetha’s father started to protest again but was cut off by Thangaraju who prompted the jeans-clad young man to speak. “I am Charles, a Chennai Law College third year student and am here to plead their case,” he said with a glance at where the couple was sitting. “Both of them are adults and have been married under the Christian Marriage Act. But Sangeetha’s father got her kidnapped and took her to Trichy and even attempted to get her married off again. But with the help of the police, I prevented this from happening as another marriage would have legally meant bigamy.”

“We deal with love marriage cases and dowry harassment cases as well. However most of the women related cases are referred to the women police stations.” The Triplicane police station has three lockups, one on the outside for law and order offenders and one on the inside for offenders awaiting trial. The third lockup is a storage space for cardboard boxes rather than prisoners.

“It was a women’s cell, but Chief Minister MGR during his regime didn’t want women to enter the police station, so this cell was shut down,” said the constable.

The patrol began at 11.30 with the cars surveying Wallajah Road, heading towards DM Nagar. The night patrol also involves shutting down shops after the stipulated time which is around 12.00. Glancing at a few tea shops, that were open at 1 am, Gangadharan muttered, “We know these shopkeepers, who mean no harm, so we try and ‘help’ them and extend their deadline.” SM Nagar being a slum area does not host any shopping centres or jewellery shops, so the basic nature of the ‘crime’ here are petty offences. Kandaswamy added a garbled ‘Umm...mm...yess..,”

After an hour of surveying, the patrol cars stopped at a tea joint, halting for tea. The narrow escape from the red truck called for a protective shield from sleep.Tea was an attempt to bury the sleep that was casting shadows on Gangadharan’s eyes, and soon the patrol cars were on their way.

Both the patrol cars stopped at the Bharati Salai and Triplicane High Road Junction for the ‘vehicle checking’. Police officers from the Zam Bazaar police station were there too. Soon a prey was snared. Sub-Inspector N.Karanan caught a couple of youths, who didn’t have all the required documents on them. Shades of confusion followed by uncertainty and then fear traversed the youth’s face when his bike was stopped by the stern-looking police man wielding a wooden rod. Indicating a man nearby to take hold of the bike, N.Karnan told the youth, “Go home, lad, and get the papers. Come to the police station and get your bike, it is as simple as that.”

While the colour had drained from the rider’s face face, his pillion partner had a sheepish smile. As the bike began to be led away, the youth’s reflexes seemed to click and immediately he began in his pockets and emerged with a cell phone. After speaking to someone over the phone, he handed over the phone to the official who had nabbed him and a conversation ensued. “Yes, tell me..yes..yes..ok, but I cannot compromise on the documents..,” and the officer handed the phone over to the youth back again. The bike apparently belonged to the shop around the corner and the phone call was to dissuade the official from seizing the bike.

“We know most of the shopkeepers around the place, and we also know who is capable of causing trouble,” N.Karnan told one of the reporters.

After rounds of the MLA hostel, trade fair, the patrol vehicle retuned to the police station to review whether any new cases had been filed. Ezhumalai and Kamaldas, two ex-convicts had been arrested. Three women stood at the entrance of the station, two young wives and an old mother.

“They keep doing this, waking up our husbands in the middle of the night and arresting them. Then our husbands go away into remand homes and return only after 2-3 months,” complained Ezhumalai’s wife, Gita.” Anand a plainclothes policeman immediately retorted, “Her husband steals anything and everything. He was arrested for stealing pipes earlier, wasn’t he?” Gita silently nodded. “Do these people look sad and worried that their husbands are in jail? They don’t because these arrests have become a regular affair.” he said with a smirk.

“These policemen are porikkis (womanizers),” says Bijeleshwari, Kamal Das’s wife who works as a cleaning lady in an office. “They ask me sly questions like, why do I work late, how can I come to the police station so late in the night. But after all I need to work for a living as well.” she says.

After noting down the usual details, one patrol car with N.Karnan set out again, this time to check patta books. Patta books are a type of attendance registers-cum-on-duty records which security guards, especially the one in ATMs are supposed to have. The Sub-Inspector who surveys the area, signs the book after perusal. There are two ATMs near Shanti movie theatre. N.Karnan halted the car and gestured the guards to approach him with the book. After an initial bout of confused eye-blinking, one of the guards hurried over to the car holding the book as if an offering.

The other guard slept behind the glass confines of the ATM, unheeded to both the other guard’s sharp, frantic calls as well as the sub-Inspector’s commanding shouts. After a couple of minutes, the sleeping guard finally stirred, saw the patrol car with its silent flashing lights and rushed to it. With a slight reprimand he was let off.

At around 3 pm the car lazed back to the police station, another night spent in scouting and preventing crime. The city slept as the nocturnal warriors returned to justice’s shell.

Turtle tale- a late night date with the Olive Ridley turtle.

Though the sight of blood scares me, that night, sympathy and despair shrouded my fear. The turtle was dead, injured and lifeless, a life lost, a story unsaid. As the group parted, I found myself looking at what I had come to find, but not in the way I had expected to.

The majestic Olive Ridley turtle lay sprawled at my feet, dead, with blood oozing from its mouth and foot. As the adults and children gazed unflinchingly, Dr Supraja Dharini reached there. With impassivity and eyes that revealed the disappointment at having lost another turtle to death’s embrace, she proceeded to identify the cause and nature of the death.

It had started as a pleasant walk on the beach with a clear sky, millions of stars and a thrilling possibility of seeing the Olive Ridley turtle.

Before we were to embark on the turtle walk, we met Dr Supraja Dharini, the founder of Kadal Aamai Padukapparlargal(KAP), translated as Sea Turtle Protection Force. The KAP volunteers essentially comprise of youth; the urban educated as well as the fishermen are united by one goal- to conserve the Olive Ridley turtle. “Community conservation was our goal,” she said.

Dr Supraja Dharini was to be our guide for the night. “Yesterday, the group didn’t spot any turtles. They were pretty disappointed”, she told the eager faces, young and old, that faced her. Discouragement was the last thing that we had expected before embarking on our ‘adventure’. We reached the barely lit Nainarkuppam beach, a few minutes after we had left the house and were met by the fishermen volunteers of KAP.

Dyanashekar, one of the volunteers who met us at the beach guided us to the hatchery that KAP volunteers had set up. The dedication of the volunteers had rubbed off on the Government. C.K.Sridharan, the Government Wildlife warden had actively participated in the conservation awareness programmes.

The hatchery was a patch of sand, surrounded by a wooden fence to keep animals and children out. We excavated two nests and buried them here. It keeps the eggs away from animals and children.” he said. Five volunteers are selected to keep a watch every night.

Every year, the female travels from Sri Lanka to Orissa to lay her eggs. The nesting season on the Chennai coast is from December to April. Do turtles have homecomings? Apparently they do, Olive Ridleys practice natal nesting, twice every season. The females come back to the place of their birth to lay eggs.

The facts of the turtle migration give a rosy picture, but fail to justifiably explain the declining numbers. Dynashekhar explained that the turtle eggs are often eaten up dogs, used as playthings by children or sold for money. Sometimes birds feed on the hatchlings. Often attracted by the roadside lights, the turtles literally turn their back and waddle in the opposite direction towards their doom.

“We incubate the eggs in the hatchery and then release the hatchlings about 15 metres away from the sea to ensure they make their way into the sea safely," he said.

We resumed our walk, albeit in clumps. Specks of torchlight dotted the beach. Every time a group of figures halted and huddled together, the torch pointing at something, the others would trot towards it. It was turning out to be a night of false alarms. Just when impatience was creeping into footsteps and whispers, a torch wielding group stopped at a distance away from me. A few seconds before the group huddled over where the torch was pointing, I quickly caught a glimpse of a mound.

With a thudding heart, I ran to the group. After my initial attempts of peering over shoulders and through crooks of arms and legs, a few people from the group broke off to discuss what they had seen and then I saw the blood.

Dyanashekhar, with deft, experienced hands rolled the turtle on its shell. “This is the fifth death of the month”, she said and gestured to the cuts on the mouth and feet. “They get stuck in the gillnets used in trawler fishing boats and are unable to extricate themselves.” After noting the measurements of the turtle, Dyanashekhar rolled the turtle back onto its stomach, causing for more blood to seep out from its mouth.

Though I had heard stories of turtle deaths, reality had struck without a warning. As our group trudged ahead, with a few awkward comments and many unanswered questions, Dr Supraja Dharini threw a backward glance and dejectedly muttered, “They will dig a pit and bury it.”

We were again in small groups, with and without torches, with the moonlight or the distant dots of lights to guide our path. Our senses heightened, we became aware of other creatures who were our companions of the dark. Every time the waves lapped the shore; it threw out creatures that tittered away - crabs! My curiosity aroused, I noticed the small, almost perfectly round holes that had been bored into the moist sand.

My companion was not very keen to get herself bitten, as she expressed eloquently with soft shrieks everytime we wandered a tad bit close to the shore. “Dodging crabs is an adventure too!”, she exclaimed while we walked to the group headed by Dr Supraja Dharini.

“I have been atop a whale, declared Dyanashekhar shyly after being prodded by her to relate his experiences as a fisherman. “We were on out our kattamaran (the fishing raft), when suddenly we found ourselves on a bump and felt a huge form gliding under us, under the water. Had it raised its head, we would have found ourselves in the water, but it just harmlessly glided past” , he concluded.

While he continued to relate the stories of sharks and dolphins to the excited group wherein children outnumbered the adults, I turned back when it was clear that the walk had ended and it was time to return, now paying attention to all that I hadn’t observed in my eagerness to spot a turtle. I slowly walked back, thoughtful, ignoring the crabs, certain that luck wasn’t in my favour.

As I deeply breathed in the fresh sea air with shut eyes, an excited chatter rose. A cluster had formed again and my mind screamed and prayed not to be confronted with death again. This time, there was no need for shoving anyone aside.

Before me, lay the final rung of our quest; an Olive Ridley turtle, alive and nesting. As it dropped its eggs into the nesting pit, an imperceptible sigh escaped Dr Supraja Dharini. Like a proud mother of the nesting mother, she instructed Dyanashekhar, and the other volunteers who had joined us to partially clear the opening of the pit to aid better vision of the egg-laying. A birth had embalmed our taste of death.

From being Lord Vishnu’s second avatar to the ‘ambassador of the ocean’ to a seaside delicacy and finally, an endangered species, the Olive Ridley turtle had come a long way. Under the cynosure of camera flashes, the foundation of another Olive Ridley turtle lineage was being laid.

My future, her fodder

She looks at you, her lips inert, but her eyes penetrating yours, as if attempting to reach the depths of your soul. You can smell the sea, hear it roar in the background, feel the wind in your hair and yet hear her voice clear above all sounds. She claims to be able to read the chapters of your book of life and get a glimpse of what the future holds for you. Like assembled pieces of a shattered mirror, fragments of other’s lives form the crust of Murugammal Kadruvel’s livelihood as a fortune teller.

The salty sea breeze, the feel of the soft sand, the roar of the sea and beseeching voices offering to tell fortunes; Marina beach is not just a picnicker’s paradise but a fortune teller’s turf as well. White hair and cheeks lined with age, a weathered nine yard sari and wrinkled hands wielding a wooden rod, were the image of a fortune-teller that I had developed during my six-month old stay in Chennai.

While most of the fortune tellers on the beach were usually well beyond their 50s and spoke rural Tamil, Murugammal Kadiruvel was a window to breaking stereotypes.

“This is our ancestral wealth,” she said, referring to her profession. “Forecast telling has been an inherent part of our lineage, going back 2000 years. My grandmother was a fortune teller, my mother and both my sisters are still in the field.” Though Murugammal spoke fluent Tamil, her family were originally Telegu speakers. The last four generations of her family have been settled in Tamil Nadu. “Hardly anyone in my family knows Telegu now.” she said with a grin.

In her early thirties, wearing a polyester sari, Murugammal’s vocabulary was peppered with many English words. “I have done my schooling till the ninth,” she revealed.

“It is a community-specific and a gender-specific occupation,” she explained. “Only girls from our community are permitted to practice this as a profession. The parents who want their girls to enter the profession visit the community temple when the girl five to ten years of age and take an oath that pledges the girl to Jakamma, the community devi (Goddess). The child has to then observe a fast for 48 hours after which she is granted the kuri, the smooth, well-rounded wooden rod.”

That, such a young child is exposed to responsibilities of such a grave nature was surprising, but Murugammal just shrugged and continued, “Taking the oath does not necessarily mean that the girl has to immediately plunge into the vocation. The oath is just a pledge to the Goddess to seek her blessings. The kuri is symbolic of the Goddess’s approval. The girl has a choice to start practicing whenever she chooses to.”

Murugammal also talked of young children who tell fortunes and predict the future. “I know of two such children who are young fortune tellers. They are revered as divine, by their clients.” However, Murugammal quickly clarified that not everyone who takes the oath, practices! “Many women never practice despite the oath and many enter the business when they are middle-aged. But once you start practicing you cannot withdraw. That is written in the shastras and cannot be defied,” she solemnly declared.

“I do not want my daughter to continue this profession.” She firmly retorted when we were talking about her family. But is she willing to let her ancestral lineage discontinue as a result? “Enough of ‘ancestry’”, she exclaimed. “Both my husband and I want our children to study, and we are determined to continue their education. Jobs can wait, but I do not want my children to be deprived of opportunities to a better future.” She shyly added, “My secret desire is to see both my children as graduates and in good jobs. So, we decided not to take the oath for our daughter.”

Murugammal has been in the fortune telling business only since the past seven years. “I was a housewife before. But then the vocation called.” Muttering that explaining these things would be difficult, she said, “I just felt like taking it up. My heart was telling me to do so.”

She frequently referred to the ‘divinity’ of her profession. “We can tell your fortune if you just tell us your name. We read palms as well, but fortune telling for us essentially means revealing details about your present and future once we know you r name. Our craft is a God-given gift, and we say whatever God tells us through the medium of our hearts.” How did she view her ‘craft’ then, as a God-given gift or a money-yielding profession? “After all everyone needs to eke out a living and this is my means of earning. I feel blessed by the Panchabootham, the five forces of nature (air, wind, fire, water and earth), ” she said.

Murugammal’s probability of getting clients depends entirely on her luck. “I have seen only two clients today,” she says. Sundays, being the most lucrative as the visitors to the beach increase threefold. How does her family react to her sacrificing her Sunday for work? “On weekends, I usually set out for the beach, only after I have sent my husband off for work, and my children to school. Whether to go or not, the choice rests with me, but the choice between gain and loss rest on me as well,” she conveyed adding that her family is very ‘accomodating’.

Murugamma charges Rs 11 for palm reading and Rs 21 for telling fortunes after hearing your name. “If the client looks well-off, I sometimes ask Rs 50 rather than Rs 15, but if a client looks poor, I have sometimes in the past also decreased the rates to Rs 5.” she said without any hint of conceit.

Marina has been Murugamma’s workplace ever since she began telling fortunes. Sometimes however she goes to the Besant Nagar beach as well. “The people there are much more ‘weighty’.” she says referring to the area famed for its rich, elite population. But her loyalty rests with the Marina as the number of clients is more here.

In view of the female monopoly in this vocation, are there any such similar, prescribed vocations for the males? “The men from our community have been traditionally involved in the fortune telling trade as well, involving the use of parrots.” Murugamma’s husband used to be a ‘parrot fortune teller’ as she refers to him, at the time of their marriage and now constructs false ceilings.

Does she ever predict what his life holds for him? “I do, and it turns out to be accurate too, though he never believes me” she sighed, continuing, “just yesterday I had told him that stop drinking, there is a probability that it might cause you some problems. He didn’t listen to me and now is sitting solemnly at home with a stomach upset. He has even vowed to listen to me in the future,” She says with barely concealed glee.

Murugamma says that most of her clients go away satisfied, despite the initial reluctance to either have their fortunes told. Even the non-believers have turned believers she says referring to a Christian couple who gave her Rs 100 instead of the initial Rs 25 that they had vouched for. “In the past year, I have even received three saris from my clients,” she reveals proudly.

There is one person’s fortune she will never read; her own!With a smile she replied, “Just like a doctor cannot operate on himself, a fortune teller cannot tell her own fortune.”

The sun had turned into a hazy ball of fire by the time she had finished and a dull evening sky prepared to bid adieu to it. Before departing, I decide to get my fortune told. “You will live for 77 years, she starts in an orderly manner and continues about the rosy life that I have ahead of me, my flourishing career (with many chances for going abroad, she specifies), my rich, loyal husband and two wonderful kids who will make me proud and finally the brain that God had gifted me with (a man’s brain in a woman’s body, in her words.) My curiosity prompted me to question the much-rehearsed manner of her fortune-telling. “The basic gist remains the same, I just fill in the details specific to each client,” she explained and immediately my mind conjured up the image of the fill-in-the blanks exercises of my childhood.

I do not know whether the fortune will turn out to be true, but as the figure slowly walked away from the sunset I realized that, much as I had forgotten, she hadn’t asked me for any money.

Grandma journalism

She came, she hobbled yet she smiled. She taught and she corrected, she encouraged us to write and not merely report This was Robin Reisig, a Columbia University professor who took a module for us in ACJ. She introduced us to the possibility that not all reports have to be written as if succumbing to a realisation that no one would read it anyways.

She erased the distinction that almost every Indian journalist imbibes at some point of the career. The distinction between 'features' and 'report writing'. "Why not combine both?" she would ask. "Put yourself in the place of an average reader. Would you like to read copies which merely adhere to the what, when, where, whys, whos and hows? Add a little description, profile the charecters a bit and then you have 'a story' in all sense of the term,"

She was right, her ideas were perfect and i continue to respect them. Its just that Indian newspapers still seem stuck in the notion of a dry rundown of facts and my naive attempts to add a featurish touch to 'newsy' stories were inadvertantly chopped and remorphed into the 'prescribed' format by a sub-ed, who i am sure would have raised an eyebrow at the language, mentally clucked in sympathy and then tapped Ctrl X.

We v/s they?

A white sail boat bobbing over shimmering, crystal blue water, a pleasant sun and just the right amount of breeze that plays with your hair without tangling it. It would have made the perfect cover picture for a resort brochure, if it would not have been for five frightened faces.

Perched daintily on the rim of the boat with her legs dangling over, placed one of the other, and big diving glasses framing her tanned face, Malar looked as if she had stepped out of a movie set. While us, four students and our accompanying teacher had expressions befitting a roller coaster ride. And forty-eight hours before, only excitement, uncertainty and curiosity had been on our agenda and the mention of a seven-hour boat ride with women sea-divers would have surely elicited a few guffaws.

The mention of a ‘covering deprivation’ trip had caused our minds to conjure up myriad images of adventure. Armed with instructions about modesty and adjustment, we set off on our quest to explore a different facet of life that had been a part of our city-bred ignorance.

Our group had been deputed to the temple city of Rameshwaram, renowned for its beaches and coral reefs. Our lodging arrangements had been made with the KTDC hotel located at the tip of the island. Images of a hotel overlooking a strip of beach and dreams of waking up to a sunrise were shattered when the smell of stale flowers, rotting flowers mixed with the salty sea air assaulted our nostrils. Picture replaced smell, and as we turned the bend the beach came to our view. We had come expecting a beach but found ourselves looking at a sea of human bodies instead.

Naked torsos and bobbing heads and pieces of garlands and polythene bags, all were a part of the gruesome reality that had dealt nature a blow.

The next day, like a balm to soothe our wounds, nature beckoned to us in the form of the boat ride. In order for us to get a glimpse into the daily travails of women divers who dive for sea-weed, we were to go with them on their daily boat ride. The ride was an adventure, not just because we were aboard a sail boat with a billowing white sail but for it being our window to a life that had evaded our urban minds all these years.

Come six ‘o’ clock in the morning, and we were walking on an unlit patch of a beach, where our companions for the day would be awaiting us. We made our way to the shore, our way faintly lit by the moonlight, our sandals, squishing against the moist sand, the roar of the sea quickening our heartbeats and our pace.

A couple of tarpaulin tents stood on the shore surrounded by a dark carpet of some vegetation, which we later learned was seaweed being dried. The sea-divers with whom we were to spend the day with, requested us to wait while the women cooked the food for the day. We sat in the tents, listening to a couple of infants gurgle nearby while the women sat hunched over their hearths, their body shielding the fire from the rough sea breeze.

The golden glow of the fire illuminated the belongings that the tent housed. Few bundles of cloth sat in one corner while fishing nets had been heaped into a blue pile in another. We had come expecting ‘poverty’ and ‘deprivation’, but the paucity that confronted us, still shook us. As we stared at the bareness of the settlement, the only thought that crossed my mind was the sheer inequality that pervades life.

Soon, the simmering of mustard seeds followed by the smell of frying fish and clatter of steel dabbas indicated that our journey was soon to begin. And then, here we were, after a good couple of hours of grappling with the waves.

The women in our boat, Maryamma, Malar, Kunjamma and others were poised to enter the water, warriors of the sea, armed with their glasses, scrappers(an instrument used for cutting the seaweed from the bed) and tin slides as foot pads. As we saw skin touch water and the involuntary shudders, the harshness of their livelihoods revealed, our arms had goose bumps as well.

After hours of searching, selecting and sorting, the women hauled themselves up with their catch, gratifying beads of water replacing the globules of perspiration, signifying the end of the day’s ordeal. The way back to the shore proved to be more of a challenge. The boat danced to the waves’ tune, the salty sea spray drenching us and the sounds of the boat’s motor drowning out the roar of the sea. We returned to the shore, drenched in water and glee.

Our tryst with the sea did not end at that. As children we had often been shushed into silence by our teacher for making the classroom a fish-market. One early morning visit to the jetty was all it took for me to cringe with horror at the hubbub and silently bless my teacher for her patience. The lazy stretch of beach was an exhibit of fish and people. The acrid smell of frying lobsters, crabs and fish, and spicy chundal with grated coconut, the beach was a foodie’s delight.

As the overpowering stench of fresh fish, dried fish and stale fish engulfed us and the boats bearing the fresh catch slowly touched the shore, the decibels went up a notch higher. Crows and kites circling the boats swiftly swooped and made away with small silver fish in their beaks and the same ritual was repeated in the human world. Small crabs tittered away as the crates of wide-mouthed fish were upturned onto the sand and the mound was immediately surrounded by auctioneers. As the mound slowly reduced to a pile, of smaller fish, huge crates of ice were ushered in. We saw the beach, an urban realm for fun and frolic in a new light- an embodiment of the struggle to live.

Small thatched huts, gleaming silver fish reflecting sunlight, bent backs, taut muscles, bleached hair on tanned skins and shimmering droplets of sweat on the brow and-for these fisher folk hard work was a religion.

As the time for us to depart grew close, deprivation for us had gone beyond a story idea. Finally the ignorance that had shielded a reality had withered away. ‘They’, the deprived, the poor, the needy-became ‘we’- we who had been deprived of the knowledge about the co-existing, the lesser privileged lives. The ‘dep trip’ had enriched us by introducing us to the world of poverty.

Shards of the same mirror

The day would crawl, the hours identified by the chores completed. A glance at the watch and her face would transform, fatigue replaced with a sparkle in her eyes that would reveal her hidden excitement. Barely concealing her smile, she would run up the cement stairs, taking care to furl her pallu to avoid it the rusted iron rods that protruded from the sides.

The sounds of chatter, peppered with giggles would greet her as she neared the terrace opening. Joyful shrieks of ‘namaste didi’ …two words that conveyed a plethora of emotions...happiness, excitement and more importantly… respect. The urgent shuffling of feet as the girls vied to sit closest to her, the tinkle of numerous anklets when the feet met the stone floor, eager eyes squinting in the sun reflected the unmasked admiration, and the fertile minds percolated by the manure of curiosity would be ready to explore.

Roshini (Baby) Thorat had been married into a rich Maratha family of the village, the aristocracy and her wedded name the biggest hindrance to her freedom. Perhaps realising the futility of being confronted the brick wall of marital life, Baby had relegated herself to being the quintessential daughter-in-law, her interests confined to the kitchen alcove.

But they say that the survival instinct takes over when the last breath is about to fizzle out, Baby started holding the adolescent girls’ youth wing meetings at four in the afternoon, discussing topics, breaking stereotypes, …It was the only time of the day when she would define and redefine the motives of her existence…the only space where she would be Baby-the individual... and not somebody’s wife or daughter-in-law. She could momentarily forget the various roles that had encroached upon her identity.

The mind takes one where the feet cannot, but the heart desires. During our long talks, Baby would talk about the freedom that she would have loved to taste…her studies that she had wanted to continue, her dreams of visiting Mumbai, the scent and sand of the beach that she would never visit. The simplicity of her wishes would shame me into a desperate silence. The little things that bordered on inconsequentiality in my life were a part of conscious imagination in hers.

My education was an obligation for me, a paid training for a money-minting subsistence…its worth confined to admission fees and mark-sheets. Baby’s heart ached to reach out to this inaccessible luxury that held the key to a treasure of knowledge that would enrich her existence.

Desires erupt in both the male and female hearts with the same intensity…the desire to learn, to experiment, to convey…the desire to live their life than lead it. Then why do women have to let go their desires for people they love the most. More importantly, why do they let go… “You and she are different”, my logical brain would scream out, the product of an urbanised ‘informed’ life. But her thoughts always surprised me.

In the youth wing meetings, Baby talked about women’s empowerment, their rights to carve their destiny guided by the force of education, their right to a choice in their marriage, awareness of the scalpel of caste that has gutted the society. Many a time the conviction with which thoughts invade your mind loses its fervour when the time comes for its reflection in reality. “Why am I made this way” she wept.” “Do I have a right to mouth words like stree vikas, when I let myself be led into a marriage, when the path to protest lay open to me….do I have the right to tell the girls to continue their education, when I myself didn’t want to.” The despair that echoed in her voice still resonates in the depths of my mind…Baby, a defeated warrior, unwilling to perish without a fight...

Were I and she different? Maybe we were…not because of our residential difference, not because of the morose sindoor that streaked the partition of her hair, not because the finesse of high school education that had not evaded me…but because my thoughts would have the opportunity to surpass into the realm of possibility, but her desires would remain confined to her thoughts, fenced in by the spikes of responsibility. Or maybe the strand of womanhood connected her life to mine…I would be someone’s wife or daughter-in-law too someday…responsibility’s curtain would cover my identity’s window as well…maybe I would be a part of two disconnected worlds too…

For urbanites inequality… deprivation…rights… are ‘issues’ prompting ‘discussion’. We can afford to talk about it, respond with agitated comments of the ‘wrongness’ of it all, and then let the waves of indifference wash over the sands of deliberation. For people like Baby, the luxury of apathy is not an option, because for her it does not end at a discussion…the ‘issue’ is her reality!

A day

The tracks lie forlorn, a subject of scrutiny of hundreds of awaiting eyes. Impatient eyes glance the dial and eyebrows rise in anxiety. Beads of perspiration begin their descent from the nape of the neck traveling along the spine...the blotches of sweat on the otherwise starched cotton shirts, reminds one of a successful water balloon attack.

An occasional stray breeze is greedily enjoyed. Normalcy assaults, “the train is delayed by 10 minutes,” the mechanical voice announces, immediately targeted by curses and profanities. Victim of a delayed time zone, the Mumbai station resumes buzzing.

Dadar, a suburban Mumbai station - a living graveyard of sleeping people, dogs and luggage carts, in the wee hours of the morning. The silence is broken as the usual goods carrier train rumbles by, the natural alarm clock for the sleeping inhabitants of the platform. A hierarchical array of sounds is heard- The station is waking up. The fizz of the boiling milk , gushing tap water meeting the aluminum pot with a clang, a crackling of oil and immediately a wafting smell of fresh vadas assails the nostrils.

Gradually the station fills up, every hour bringing in an influx of different sorts of commuters. Clumps of students, women and workers engage in animated conversations peppered with exclamations and giggles. The beggar kids, palms outstretched, flit between various groups, briefly touching arms, tapping them lightly or tugging at saree pallus and pant pockets, requesting for a rupee or two, gesturing to their malnourished stomachs. Often their tiny arms are roughly jerked off , adult faces spilling distaste. Their eyes momentarily reflects hurt; despair lining their grimy faces. But money has to be made and food to be eaten. Shrugging their emotions off, they scamper away.

The tapping of wood against wood blended into the sounds of thousands of footsteps is spontaneously rhythmic. The boot polisher, sits amidst his world of shoes, a livelihood earned by touching scores of feet. Unemployed interviewees, blue and white collar, service sector workers, betel-chewing businessmen and corporate personnel place their shoes on the pedestal with equal authority, united against grime. The brush gets to work, a rag chafes the excess polish and the shoe glimmers

Colourful plastic baskets concealing a treasure house of cheap accessories under a rag cloth are seen bobbing over the crowd, precariously balanced on adolescent girls and boys’ heads. These amateur business men and women come armed with the little tricks of the trade. “One hair clip is for Rs 10 , but I will give you two in eight rupees, after all you are my ‘favourite’ customer”, says the grinning face. Often, while making through a jostling crowd, their little, swaying bodies are unable to steady the basket on their heads. Their strength giving away, the basket topples to the ground and clicking plastic bodies are strewn on the stone floor. With a quick curse, the treasure is hastily reassembled and the rag cloth restored.

Hard-work and hunger inscribe every nook of the railway station, misery being a harsh reality. Every station, having an assortment of smells, sights and people unique to its own. A part of permanence- a part of the station’s inimitable history!

Reality bites

The women sat under the tree, their unperturbed chatter cutting the silence of the sleepy afternoon. Occasional spurts of betel juice would hit the tree stump nearby, the reddish tinge retained from being subjected to the ire of many paan loyalists.

The change in them as they watched us approach was almost instantaneous. The chatter abruptly died down to a few whispers which finally gave way to silence. The uninhibited laughter was replaced by looks of suspicion followed by uncertainty. After a brief pause, we finally saw the glimpse of a faint smile playing on the corners of the lips of who seemed to be the eldest of the group.

“What do you want?” asked a raspy voice. The first courageous attempt was soon followed with “Who are you and whom do you want?” and a bolder “Go away!” “Don’t go there alone,” the masculine voice of the Sarpanch had forewarned us. His voice now resonated in our minds, making it all seem like a hasty blunder.

“We are on behalf of the hospital,” we said. “The doctors there are worried about you. They say they haven’t seen a Bhil in over 3 months now at the village dispensary.”

“Who will give us money, if we care about our health” came a curt response from a woman with a drooling baby. “Who will give us money for our health? Go tell your doctors that we are fine, we are alive…if being alive with one solitary meal in the day is your idea of a life.”

The blatancy of the statement shook us, though we had seen the reports. We had seen the facts and figures, but reality had evaded us till then. We had come to ‘develop’ these people, we…three students who had never lived outside their city before, a village life beyond comprehension, we who defined being deprived of food as a lunch break infringed upon by an unprecedented lecture extension, we who never knew what it was to live without a book, without knowing to read.

Forced to focus on the agenda that had brought us to the area and ignore sarcastic reply, Hazel, the most forthright member of our trio asked, “The balwadi that the Government had built in your area was shut down owing to lack of students. Why the hesitation to educate your children. After all your education was free wasn’t it?” Grim smiles replaced the amusement that had mirrored their faces a few moments ago. “‘Our’ education… ‘Our’ area… ‘our’ children…on one hand your Government says that we should be assimilated into the larger society…your society, but at the same time the same Government at every step of its so called ‘vikas yojanas’ deepens the crevice of difference.”…

“By the way madam,” an adolescent voice rang out “the balwadi’s teacher stopped coming after 1 month of its inauguration, any idea where she is now?” A burst of giggles erupted…overcome by speechlessness and shame at the subtle discrimination that even we ...so called ‘objective’ students of Sociology harboured, we turned to leave.

“Won’t you have a cup of chai?” the woman with the baby asks” Or is our chai taboo for you?” she mischievously retorts. Returning her smile we nodded our assent to their grudging acceptance.

That night, the men were crying too!

The faint yellow glow that came from the three light bulbs above our heads illuminated the faces around us. Muffled whispers and sniffles are heard. Anitatai’s voice was clear inspite of the unshed tears in her eyes.

“We are grateful,” she said “to you three girls who arrived from the city as strangers into our village and created firm places in our hearts never to be replaced or forgotten. Now you are ready to depart and return to the lives you had left behind to be with us, simple folk of a ‘khedgaon’.You gave us six weeks of your life and touched our lives forever.” “More importantly,” she added in a choked voice. Now the tears were streaming down her face. “We thank your parents for placing implicit trust in you and permitting you to come and live miles away. Being mothers ourselves we recognise the anxiety, fear and worry that must have plagued their hearts while letting their daughters go amidst virtual strangers.” She broke down unable to continue. The scene is still vivid in my mind .

Six weeks before though I knew that our village internship would be a memory that would last us a lifetime, the intense pain of emotion I felt at the time of our departure was almost physical.

Pratibha didi our reporting officer often used to joke, “Be sure to let tears plop when you leave Ambegaon.” Then in a serious tone he would add, “ For their innocent minds, tears represent the medium through which a plethora of feelings are expressed; be it grief, despair or sheer joy.” Being the composed person that I prided myself to be, I used to imagine their disappointed faces when my stubborn tears would refuse to to drop when the time for me to reciprocate with tears would come.

The day of our departure was a glum one. There were rain clouds covering the sky which added to our gloom…because the first showers of the year that had been expected before our departure hadn’t yet occurred. Every little thing, the new little shoot of the cotton crop that I saw on my last walk in the fields, the clothes flapping on the terrace, the wind that coursed through my hair, the little calf who was tied to the edge of the shed, the fruits of the neem tree, with whom I used to scare away the squeaking birds with in the wee hours of the morning, even the little dog who always snapped on my heels evoked in me the same shattering thought , ‘ I probably wont ever get to see this again’ That, rather the prospect of leaving saddened my heart. `Maybe this was the end…finally the end.

The huge crowd that had accumilated on the porch of ‘our’ house, itself was a BIG surprise. Did we really know so many people? Vaguely I could fathom familiar faces- women whose hands had heaped homemade food on our plates, children with whom we had had fights for our turn with the cricket bat, men we used to meet in the village grocery store, who gave us a side glance but never ventured to talk. The time had come for us to leave. We were pushed into the car that was to take us to the city, for fear that the flooding emotions will prevent us from leaving. As I rolled down the glass of my window, tears blurring my sight, amidst the bawling women, the men stood there,silently. That night, the men were crying too!

Blasts from the past - blogs of the present

Okay! There is nothing new about this blog except for the fact that i am writing it now. This is meant to be my archive for the work that i did in Asian College of Journalism, Chennai in 2006. While most of these would be the assignments that i did as a part of my course, i will always fondly remember each one of them as my experiments with the written word.

Yeah, i continue to be surprised as well when i imagine that i began to write only in ACJ. Pre J-School I had written diaries, absolutely devoted all my home-work time to only doing the essay-writing class work and even tried to infuse creative language into my dull boring college projects. Reading has been a hobby, books have been a childhood pal and their stories continue to be a window into an imaginary and a solely personal world. But ask me why i never wrote when writing is usually considered to be the logical next step after reading, and i don’t have an answer to that myself. Maybe it was laziness, or because sports held more interest for me when I was growing up and I couldn’t have been bothered with writing anything besides notes or exams. Or maybe i just needed a little but firm push in the right direction and that's what ACJ gave me.

Be it about a fond memory, a political rally or a boat ride with women sea-weed divers i wrote about it all during the nine ACJ months, feeling the words and the emotions behind them as i put them down. That year discovered that i could think the best on paper, swirl with the nucleus of a thought and eventually flesh it out.


Presenting some of my earliest forays into descriptive and news writing experiments from ACJ-2006- the year when I discovered ‘what I would do for the rest of my life’