Before you read: with everything going on in Delhi, it’s tough to think or write about anything else. This isn’t a report, or a piece to convince you of anything. It’s what I saw and felt. Took some time to hit publish, worrying about the consequences, while also trying to put it into words (still not done). If you were there, you’ll recognise some of this. If you weren’t, here’s a glimpse.
Sansad March, Chalo Dilli, CJP protest, NEET protest, Jantar Mantar protest. Multiple names, same sentiment.
K (my friend) and I took a half day from work and went. We signed up for the possibility of violence. But this one hit close to home for us, more on this in another post.
Before leaving, I wrote my name, my blood group, and emergency contacts on a piece of paper. Bandaids, masks, Dettol. This is what I packed to attend a peaceful protest in my own country.
On our way to the site, we asked our auto driver how the mahaul had been. Aaj sab theek hai, lekin kal tabahi thi, ekdum undekha. Yesterday was July 20. People running and escaping the lathi charge, the tear gas, the brutality. He had pulled some students into his auto to save them and drove them to the metro station at full speed. He got hit by a lathi in the process. He’s willing to do it again.
Janpath is where I went as a nineteen year old for the oxidised jewellery, kolhapuris, and McDonald’s. It’s the Delhi we show people, a reminder of why we love Delhi the way we do. Had I been there yesterday, I don’t think I could have looked at it the same way again.
K and I walked past the yellow barricades, the RAF vans with tear gas guns, security personnel in their uniforms. Five minutes in, the crowd started running in the opposite direction. Sounded like tear gas guns, but no confirmation. K and I ran, not letting go of each other’s hand. Then it stopped. Some protestors had provoked the police and were scared off with lathis. Panic travels fast.
A middle-aged man came up to tell us to leave. They will barricade the exit and use tear gas, leave while you can, he said. Another uncle heard him and chided him. Faaltu ki afwaah mat faelao, he said. It’s a peaceful protest, you continue beta.
The road leading to the parliament was blocked; you could see the RAF with their big, spherical helmets that looked like grey bubbles. We walked more. Tolstoy Road. Sansad Marg. Jai Singh Marg. Overflowing with people.
Everyone showed up, and how.
Senior citizens. Kids with their parents. Aunties in their fifties. Students, so many students, more of them arriving the longer we stayed.
People asked for consent before taking photographs of posters. Nobody pushed. Nobody stared. A man bumped into me and apologised. A woman I had never met gave me her spot on the roundabout for a better view of the spokesperson. K and I ranted with a group of boys about anti-social elements causing chaos.
Detained protestors had just been released. Ashutosh (CJP representative) announced this, made his peace offering to Delhi Police, and urged all protestors to keep it peaceful. The clapping came up like a roar. Whistles, shouting, people who did not know each other turning to each other. Mr. Wangchuk had been moved to a private hospital. That was the second thing we clapped for.
As I walked through the crowd, still holding K’s hand, I saw a different Delhi. The version of it I had seen in movies from the mid-2000s. The version of it I had read about in our NCERT political science books.
Every two minutes someone came up and offered us something. A Bisleri bottle. A McPuff. A McDonald’s burger. A Domino’s slice. ORS packets. Samosas. Bandaids.
One group was handing out Melody toffees. :)
Posters with the wittiest slogans. Slogans I thought I’d never see in public.
The energy, slogans, mini-concerts. To an outsider, this may seem like chaos and inconvenience. But from the inside, it was a rare coming together of citizens.
A group had a bluetooth speaker playing Azaadi, Maa Tujhe Salaam, Chak De India. I have sat through these songs at the Wagah border and hated every minute of it. But this time, I tapped my foot to them.
We left at ten in the night. Janpath was alive. Sounds of tambourine and collective singing faded slowly as I reached the main road. People were still arriving, pouring out of autos and Ubers. The police were scattered near the metro stations. No clashes today.
On the ride back home, just before Dhaula Kuan, I spotted the high-mast Indian flag. I’ve passed it a hundred times. At the risk of sounding corny, this time it felt different.
I still have the paper with the emergency contacts. To be re-used. :)
"to be re-used" :)