When Rahim Chacha Says 'Laal Salaam'

[A shorter version of this beautiful encounter was published in Open magazine, Vol 04 Issue 17 dated April 24-30, 2012. Below is a detailed, more intimate version is below.]

A copy of 'New Age Weekly' is visible the moment we enter the room. It lies on the window sill, and the headline from an inside page 'Our Destination is Socialism' stands visible. A narrow bed with a clean white bedspread lies adjacent to the window. A large copper-coloured chariot – from the Mahabharata scene – rests on the sill too, with details about felicitation from IPTA (Indian People's Theatre Association). 

The top of an elongated wooden cupboard bears ground to an army of mementos from his days as an actor. On the wall is one sepia-toned photograph, as well as the certificate of honour of Padma Bhushan, signed by former President of India, APJ Abdul Kalam. The other wall has books authored by Engels, Eisenstein and others, whose pages are yellow and have gathered some dust. Next to it is a small shelf where bottles of syrups, and a bottle of Shower-to-Shower talcum powder, fight for space. 

Quintessential dialogues by Paresh Rawal stream out from a tiny television kept low, below the bookshelf. Then, the sound of a walker reminds us whom we have come to meet. First, the wrinkled face is visible, and then the completely bent-forward body of the man who made “Itna sannaataa kyun hai bhai” a famous dialogue.

He notices the visitors and smiles lightly, pushing the walker with a lot of strength, as visible in the strains of his arms. The green-red assembly of veins and arteries of the arm are clearly visibly behind the paper-thin white skin. In his spartan white khadi kurta and lungi, Avatar Kishan Hangal moves towards his bed and settles on it quickly. A man settles the pillows and cushions, and it is only about 5 minutes later that Hangal is now seemingly comfortably seated – in a position what seems to be a painful slouch. He pulls his soft blanket and asks us to bring our chairs nearer to him. Prakash Reddy, leader of Communist Party of India (CPI), introduces us. When he introduces me as a journalist, Hangal remarks in Hindi, “So many journalists have already written so much about me. What is left to write now? Anyway, ask. I will answer.”

My lips are sealed and eyes are moist. Who am I really to ask him anything? I was visiting him because I had learnt that he had recently renewed his membership with the CPI. I wanted to hear about his days as a 'Comrade', fighting the British as a young boy and then working towards a fair world order through theatre, and thus IPTA. But what “new” will I write? How do I ask about the stories behind the long winding wrinkles, the stories of nearly a century ago? Silence. I shift uncomfortably in the chair. “Ask. Pucho. Daro matt.”

I remember the reason why I was there. He turned 97 this February, and soon enough, he had renewed his membership with the CPI. I began to ask about his association with IPTA, and he begins. “I was a Communist ever since my days in Peshawar.” He realises that the IPTA chapter was far away from the time he became an adult. So he stares up into the tubelight, and begins to talk of Peshawar. I inch forward so that his feeble voice is later audible on my recorder, despite the whirring of the air-conditioner. I did not gather the courage to request it to be switched off.

But he notices it quickly, that I am concerned about the air-conditioner's noise. He asks, “Bandh karnaa hai kya?” I smile and refuse the offer. He turns back to look at the tubelight to scan through the rich fabric of memories.

“I came from an affluent family but that was also the time when we had to fight off the British. Bahut maar khaaya, bahut laathi khaaya, goliyaan bhi lagi (I was beaten up by batons and also was shot at). I began to take up tailoring for a living,” he says. The words seem unclear when he says it at first, and after saying it three times, and louder, do we understand 'tailoring'. He makes that effort to explain that what he knows he has mumbled for a moment. “I was a high-class tailor; a highly paid tailor. The movement was also going on. I joined the movement when I was just 20. I remember the day clearly when Bhagat Singh was arrested, I remember the day when they sentenced him to death, I remember the day when he was hanged to death. Pathans had cried that day. The Pathans had cried! Everyone walked on the streets chanting 'Bhagat Singh, Bhagat Singh'. Tab toh bass dimaag mein baith gayaa tha kii angrezon ko bhagaane hai (It was rooted deep in my mind that the British power had to be overthrown).”

Sentences are paused with a long silence or a short dry cough, before Comrade Hangal speaks again. It seems he has a lot to say, and there is a lot that cannot be just forgotten. He seems far from forgetting anything. From Peshawar, he moved to Karachi, sometime in the mid-1940s, and continued his tailoring work as well as his work in the freedom movement as a Party member. “I also read that you were jailed for three years during the movement,” I say, hoping to hear him speak about that chapter. “Haan, I was in jail for three years. When I was released, I was very happy. But they told me that I have to be tadipaar now. 'Tadipaar' samajhte ho na? I just had one day to leave Karachi with my wife and son. When we were moving, scores of Hindus moved with us. We couldn't understand how our mulk (motherland) was being divided. But we reached Mumbai...” again, the voice trails off. The long pauses seem to reflect the long years spent, which have surely often been summed in just a few sentences or conversations. The flood of memories rush in at their own will or when beckoned. 

Life began to move on: he continued tailoring for raees ('rich') clients. He continued his deep association with the Party. He was instrumental in making IPTA a formidable force of political action on the stage, and then he joined the Hindi film industry. Did he have any conversations about politics with the people with whom he worked in films? Comrade Hangal nods his head in disapproval. “Doing films was just work. I enjoyed my time in IPTA.” Before I could ask him any more questions from that chapter of his life which was about the glitter of Bollywood, he turns to face Comrade Reddy: “Arre yaar kuch toh bataao aajkal Party mein kya ho rahaa hai!” (Say something now about all that's happening in the Party!) 

Comrade Reddy gives him updates: “Patna ko toh laal kar diyaa iss baar... dus hazaar log aaye the.... (We coloured Patna red this time... 10,000 people had assembled).” Comrade Hangal listens with wide eyes and a wide smile. After a few minutes of updates, he says, “Chalo acchi baat hai.” He turns to me, to give the journalist an important piece of analytical information: “The Party has gone through several changes. It has made many mistakes too in the past, but the important thing is to learn from mistakes. It is going through a good phase now.” He straightens his back and tries to continue sitting up for us.

Hangal's son Vijay walks in and sits in a corner, as we continue to chat with his father. Comrade Hangal says politely, “I think this is enough for today? The boy will come any minute now to shave my beard. Lekin phir aana zaroor (But do come again).” But Comrade Hangal is already clean-shaven. Before we say our goodbyes, the rest of us want to now take photographs with Comrade Hangal, and surround him turn by turn. Comrade Hangal obliges with smiles. We urge Vijay saab to join in the photographs and he shyly refuses. Comrade Hangal then says, “I wish I could have given him an easier childhood. He and his mother suffered a lot due to my involvement in the andolan (movement). Even now, he has to look after me all the time. I feel bad for him.” Vijay saab says nothing. When photographs are clicked through tiny cameras and smart phones, Comrade Hangal wants to see each of them. “Flash nahi aaya. Phir se kheecho (The camera did not flash the light. Take another photograph).” And then he is happy to see them all. “Life is not just politics. This is also life,” Comrade Hangal laughs. 

The barber walks in. “Iskaa bhi kheecho photo! (Photograph him too!)” Comrade Hangal says, and then he is very pleased to see the photograph. “Please definitely make a copy and give him the photo. Please do not forget,” he urges. We walk out, and Vijay saab invites us into the facing flat of this old, dilapidating building in Santacruz east, where they have been living since the 1960s. The building is among the few of that disappearing breed in Mumbai, that have a leafy canopy over the balconies on three storeys. Vijay saab asks us if any of us enjoy poetry, and all of us unanimously reply in the affirmative. It is a Sunday evening and none of us seem to have anything more pressing. So we follow Vijay saab into his neat room and he pulls out plastic folders that contain papers. This is his poetry, and Vijay saab begins to recite them. Memories of moments now unattainable, the reminiscence of mother's touch and the desire for his wife's company (Comrade Hangal and Vijay saab are both widowers) are the subjects of his lyrical words in English. He says later, almost apologetically, that he prefers to write in English although he is fluent in Hindi.

Vijay saab is 74 years old, and has been taking care of his father since a decade. He was a photographer but long travels had begun to take a toll on his health. Besides, long days away from Mumbai meant a constant worry about his aging father. He says that few people visit them, although the father-son duo would both love the company of people.

We hear the click of the walker and Comrade Hangal walks in slowly, looking brighter. He decides to sit on a sofa and begins to inquire about each of us. He wants a detailed background – not just names. He listens intently and later jokes about a few tongue-twisting surnames. He then suddenly remembers that he had not worn his denture. Nevertheless, he continues to chat. This time, he is more upright in his seat.

It is time to leave, finally. As we greet him, he presses our palms, one by one, between his tough yet soft hands. After we all are done greeting, he says aloud, “Come again when you are not too busy. I will like it.”

One of us says “Laal Salaam Comrade!” Comrade Hangal smiles widely and raises his fist up and shakes it vigorously, saying “Laal Salaam, Laal Salaam!” He laughs, and then coughs vigourously.

Slogans As Songs, Songs As Slogans

(This article first appeared in The Times of India Crest edition, dated April 28, 2012)

Pakistani protest band Laal uses music and satire to take Marx to the masses.


When the Pakistani band Laal walked into Hard Rock Cafe Mumbai hours before their performance there, they were clear about what they wanted - a clean stage without many props. "It would be amazing if we could project the video of Dehshatgardi murdabad (Down with the perpetrators of mayhem) while we play live. That video says it all, " says Taimur Rahman, the man behind the music, videos and politics that makes Laal a progressive and rebellious band. After years of free performances for workers and peasants, singing the poetry of Faiz Ahmed Faiz, receiving hate mail but also thousands of internet hits - especially for Jhoot Ka Uncha Sar, which had an all-woman crew wearing moustaches to mock the system - the band recently toured India to launch their second album Utho Meri Duniya (My World, Wake Up).

"In a way, we follow Gramsci's position on warfare: using the little space available for dissent and pushing the boundaries to expand that space, " says Taimur. "Laal has been successful because we have managed to get our voice into the mainstream media. Even if we do not agree with the mainstream entirely, we can find a common ground. Strategy is the key. "

Taimur is accompanied by wife, Mahvash Waqar, who was a journalist with a news channel until November 2011 when the channel was pulled off the air. "I am jobless now but a fulltime singer for Laal, " Waqar smiles. Then, there is banker Haider Rahman, Taimur's cousin, who takes the place of third vocalist with his flute. Taimur, Mahvash and Haider have kept Laal alive, with sessions musicians joining them whenever there are funds available to pay them.
Taimur grew up in an environment where Marxism was part of the air he breathed - his father is a well-known Left-wing intellectual while his mother is a founding member of the Women's Action Forum. "I grew up listening to Bob Marley and songs of protest, so my path was an obvious one, " says the 36-year-old assistant professor of political science at Lahore University of Management Sciences (LUMS), who is also the General Secretary of Communist Mazdoor Kissan Party (Pakistan) and is associated with various trade unions and peasant organisations.

The band is excited by the impact of the Dehshatgardi murdabad video, a montage with a rock-and-roll feel to it, with the lyrics exposing the role of the US in supporting the early Taliban. Taimur wrote the song and directed the video. They got plenty of hate mail and comrades from the party advised Taimur to absent himself from public meetings for a while. "The state is more predictable;we know the triggers for state action. But the vigilante phenomenon from the last few years in Pakistan is much more dangerous, " says Taimur with a serious voice. A moment later, he loosens his shoulders and smiles, "But I cannot be talking of my little fears compared to what is happening in Karachi or north-west Pakistan. "

"We would shout and sing out slogans, and that was in a way our training. Our songs were slogans, and our slogans were songs, " he says. The video of Maine Unse Yeh Kahaa (I said to him. . . ) was shot outside his room and uploaded on Youtube. It was an overnight success and Laal was formally born in 2008. Geo TV released their first album, which was a huge hit.

"It seemed like the media was hunting for artistes and musicians who were ready to speak aloud, especially after the veil of Emergency and censorship by General Musharraf had disappeared, " says Taimur. "The media was ready to go beyond its role of reporting. Today, we do enjoy freedom of speech. The newspapers are doing their job. The surge of news channels has meant more space. We have taken up that one per cent space for free speech;taking up the 99 per cent space won't be long. "
When he is not practising with the band or lecturing at LUMS, Taimur conducts seminars on labour rights for workers and trade unions. Then, there are the free performances across the country, throughout the month. "Somehow we manage to do at least one concert a month to bring home some money, " says Waqar. They are only too aware of the big money that they could have made if they had a corporate sponsor. "But our mission is not to make money. We are very happy to do the free performances among peasants, " says Taimur. Recently, Laal toured through Europe and none of the performances, except for one, earned them anything. Whatever profit they possibly make is reinvested into making videos. The video Doob gaya was used to raise funds after the devastating floods of 2010.

Despite being an internet sensation, Taimur knows that the band's real stomping ground is at the grassroots level, where issues like growing religious extremism need to be tackled. "We should remember that without grassroots action, there is no other alternative. We made the video of Utho Meri Duniya during a rally of 10, 000 people. We sang with them using loudspeakers from the village mosque. Our work in the last 15 years has been with the grassroots;it is only now that we are doing albums. The one who doesn't go work with the grassroots will have his work only floating in the air, " concludes Taimur, with a 'Laal Salaam' instead of 'Khuda Hafiz'.

A Film With A Difference

 

(This article first appeared in The Hindu, dated January 28, 2012)

 

It took 14 years to make the 200-minute-long documentary “Jai Bhim Comrade” on Dalits. 

Director Anand Patwardhan explains why.

 

 

A still from the documentary.

 

 

On January 9, in the bylanes of Byculla's BIT Chawl, a documentary was premiered after sundown. A huge white screen ensured that people from the three-storeyed buildings nearby could also view the film. For over three hours Anand Patwardhan's “Jai Bhim Comrade” took us on a musical-historical journey. Beginning with the rousing voice of Vilas Ghogre, we move quickly to the police killings in Ramabai Nagar in 1997. Suddenly, the camera takes us inside Ghogre's home, where he scribbled his last words before committing suicide on the fifth day after the police firing. 

Why did the film take 14 years to make? “I wanted to continue filming till all the false cases against the people in the colony were removed, or until the police officers who had ordered the firing were sent to jail,” explains Patwardhan. The Ramabai Nagar case took its own natural course. Another thread was exploring the tension between caste and class. Patwardhan says, “Vilas was a Dalit who became a Marxist, but then chose to reassert his Dalit identity, by tying a blue scarf as he hung himself. I wanted to understand this seeming clash of identities. As Vilas was no more, I began filming others from his musical tradition. A few were Leftists like Vilas, others celebrated Dr. Ambedkar's life and message. I wanted to do justice to this whole spectrum.” 

A still from the documentary

The spectrum is broad indeed — from a proud song describing the Dalit who became a barrister, to those that recount the travails of migrant workers to the city; from lullabies based on the teachings of the Buddha, to naughty qawaalis that celebrated sexuality equally by men and women. Almost each song is juxtaposed with evocative visuals — claustrophobic slum-dwelling illustrated by a chicken coop; “My barrister husband is coming home” juxtaposed with visuals of men sweeping the streets. As Patwardhan points out, this is not an ethnographic film. “It is a record of the people and events I encountered. Many were not recognised as singers. Saraswati Bansode was a housewife. Shanta Bai Gadpaile's husband was a poet and she remembers his songs. The tradition is so strong that ordinary people just sang.” 

Many songs in the film narrate the game politicians have played with Dalits. In one instance, at an Ambedkar Jayanti function, small boys are dancing to the tune of “In the Mumbai... we are the Bhai..” from Bollywood's “Shootout At Lokhandwala”. Somehow the lyrics fit — Dalits have been used by the underworld, as well as political parties. 

Actual statistics higher

The mention of the Khairlanji incident was thus expected. “Official records show that two Dalits are raped and three killed daily. The actual statistics are higher. The film speaks of two other cases from Beed — a teacher murdered and a girl raped. So people cannot say that Khairlanji was a one-off incident which won't happen again. These incidents are part of our daily occurrence,” says Patwardhan. 

The fact that instead of addressing this, Dalit leaders are busy flirting with the Congress or with Hindutva, got the audience to acknowledge the movement's weak leadership today. Several of them, including Dr. Ambedkar's grandson Anandrao, felt that the documentary was a wake-up call. But what generated most outrage was the way in which Kabir Kala Manch (KKM) was forced by the police to go underground. 

Singers and poets

Patwardhan had met KKM in 2007 during a memorial meet at Ramabai Nagar. He followed these cultural activists and their families as they raised questions about the effects of a “development” that displaces the poor and Dalits alike. In June 2011, Sheetal Sathe and all the people from KKM had been pushed underground as they had been branded as Naxalites. “That's when I realised that I have to start showing this film. I want this country to understand who these singers and poets are so that people like Sheetal can come out in the open again and prove that they hadn't done anything wrong, anything more than speak up for the powerless,” says Patwardhan. 

The premiere on January 9 had its effect. Born out of the Dalit movement, the film was going back to the same people on the day when they remember Dalit Panther theatre activist Bhagwat Jadhav. A resident of BIT Chawl, Jadhav was killed during a rally in 1974, when Shiv Sena supporters dropped a grinding stone on his head. Since then, every year, his family conducts a memorial talk. There couldn't have been a better tribute this year than the premiere of “Jai Bhim Comrade”. 

A still from the documentary

“Basti screenings are a must. The intellectual class in India laps up and understands every political nuance of the developed world, but the reverse is not true. We like to be spoon-fed with over-simplified cliches, and that concession I have refused to make,” says Patwardhan, about his 200-minute-long documentary.

But tell him that this is his first documentary that has managed to get a Censor certificate without a major struggle, then he smiles, “Perhaps the democratic system is maturing? I think the upper castes know that they have been oppressing Dalits for thousands of years. If Dalits don't have a right to say ‘Gande Mataram', then who does?” 

Greeting 'Tashi Delek' in Mumbai

On November 12 last year, 25 people congregated in a Bandra flat to prepare and eat momo. This delicacy was the magnet that drew about 20 Tibetans living in Mumbai to come together and chatter in the language of their homeland – greeting each other with 'tashi delek'. The news of 11 monks immolating themselves in the Kirti Monastery in the Ngaba region of eastern Tibet seemed like a news from a distant land. Only, this was news about their own people.

This momo party was the only time when Tenzin Choedhar (26) saw so many Tibetans in Mumbai come together, in the 5 years that she has been living and working in the city. “Tibetan students in Delhi have the time and space to raise the issue of Tibet. Moreover, they are mostly living together as a community in the refugee camp. But Mumbai is the launchpad for our careers. There is a feeling of helplessness about our identity. But we aren't able to do much and hence have no other option but to move on with our own lives,” says Choedhar, who grew up in Delhi, far from the Tibetan refugee camp. She works at a MNC that does business in China and Taiwan. “I never engage in any political discussions with my colleagues, because I am not too clear of what I have to say.”

The story is a little different for Tenzin Methok, who had been accompanying her father to Mumbai every winter, selling sweaters in Parel. Raised at a boarding in Ooty, Methok came to Mumbai for her graduate studies. “People assumed I was from Nepal or Manipur. When I would correct them, they would have many questions about I was not living in my own country. I did not have clear answers myself, until I met Kallianpur jii,” says the petite girl, who now works with a HR firm in Powai.

Fifty-eight-year old CA Kallianpur has kept alive Friends of Tibet (FoT) since 2003 from his home in Bandra – the site for the momo party. An avid reader of military history, he prepares packages of articles on understanding Tibet better. These are posted to people, whose addresses he might have come across through lay visiting cards. “Most Mumbaikars do not know where Tibet is. After explaining the Geography, I tell people that Tibet's case for independence is clear under international law,” says Kallianpur. His residence has become the arrival lounge for Tibetans who wish to shape their career in Mumbai.

Bhutanese Kelly Dorji came to Mumbai to further his studies, and became a ramp model and actor. In 2008, he was invited by his aunt to join her in praying for Tibetans at a rally in Mumbai, during the Beijing Olympics. Dorji's grandmother and several other relatives are from Tibet. "I felt honoured when I was asked to say a few words to the large gathering there, which comprised mostly exiled Tibetan monks. I stood in prayer on Indian soil as a guest, praying for the people of Tibet. But I think Mumbai had the same reaction as most of India – after a fleeting glimpse, the page was turned to the latest scores in cricket!"

But 'career' no more means becoming a waiter or hairdresser. “Today, you will find many Tibetans taking up significant roles in large companies. They are well-educated, and have developed the confidence of doing much more than making the traditional noodles,” says Tibetan writer and activist Tenzin Tsundue, who lived in Mumbai for five years. He was one of the founding members of FoT in Mumbai in 1998, which organised a seven-day cultural Festival of Tibet in March 2000, across several venues in the city. It was in Mumbai where Tsundue nurtured his talent as a writer and poet, under the guidance of several noted poets of the time.

The momo party was Tsundue's idea. He knew that the Tibetans in Mumbai ought to be woven into a community. That was also the week when the Bollywood film 'Rockstar' was to be released. The Tibetans were thankful to filmmaker Imtiaz Ali for talking about Tibet and freedom, through a song. However, the Indian Censor Board dashed their hopes when it asked the filmmaker to blur 'Tibet' during a scene that carried a banner of 'Free Tibet'. Tsundue met the Board but brought back no happy results. The previous week, on November 4, 25-year-old Sherab Tsedor had set himself on fire outside the Chinese Embassy in New Delhi, in solidarity with the 11 monks who had immolated themselves. Alert cops managed to rush him to a hospital. Today, Tsedor updates his progress in healing on Facebook.

“Facebook is one of the best mediums for us in Mumbai to stay connected,” said Dolkar Tenzin. She created the 'Tibetan Mumbaikars' community page on Facebook, and updates it with news and events pertaining to Tibet. A few non-Tibetans are also part of this small online group of 72. Methok, on the other hand, says that she has become synonymous with being the contact person for any Tibetan who wants to step foot in Mumbai. “Some days, I have to bunk work to be at the programmes organised for Tibet. It was easier when I was a student at St Xavier's College,” she says.

The girls are joined by Pasang Tashi (25) who is hoping to take up a more active role in organising events and demonstrations. Pasang was separated from his parents at the age of three, when he was brought to live and study in Dharamsala. He completed his graduate studies in Bangalore and came to Mumbai in 2010. “I do not miss my family as I did not develop any bond with them. China did not allow me to know my family. Now, I can only try to get more people to know about us and stand by us in our freedom movement. We cannot lose committed people to self-immolations, which is a desperate step. The Kirti monastery has become an extreme prison, with no food or water being supplied to the devout monks inside,” Pasang explains.

Ask him if he remembers anything of his early years in Tibet, and he says, “My only memory of Tibet are the mountains, the grass all around, and our house which was a tent. All of that feels like a dream, as though I never lived it.” Much like the nomadic lifestyle of the resident Tibetans, and the ones in exile, Pasang lives in the office of the production house where he works.

Remembering those who self-immolated themselves for a free Tibet, for a better tomorrow -- at McLeod Ganj, Dharamsala, November 2011.  © Nitesh Mohanty

'Why Is Narendra Modi Afraid Of Sanjiv Bhatt?'

("I asked for water; not caste")

A mosaic in the backyard of Gandhi's Sabarmati Ashram in Ahmedabad. Is this the same Gujarat?

+++

[Sanjiv and Shweta Bhatt are caring hosts to their guests. The large and yet simple Bhatt residence oozes warmth from all corners. This home, that has nurtured this brave family to do what is right before might, leads me to understand them a little better. Over a cup of appropriately-spiced masala chai, I relax in their leafy terrace. Shweta Bhatt narrates to me her feelings and thoughts about the Gujarat that was once safe, her brave husband, and the sea of humanity that keeps her family afloat in these rough times. On the other hand, the suspended IPS officer who is in no hurry to get back to his office, always has a fixed answer with a smile: “Life is good.” The answer and the smile: neither of them are false. Here are Shweta's words, as she urges me to “tell the world the truth about Narendra Modi...”]

I have always been a housewife; I am a housewife still, and am happy to be one. Sanjiv and I both love our families a lot, and our family has always stood by us. We had a love marriage. We were preparing for the UPSC exams, but I did not go for the interview because we were in a steady relationship by then – why waste a seat when I wouldn't be in the Services? When Sanjiv had filled his form, he wrote “IPS”, “IPS”, “IPS” for the three options of choice of the Service. He was always in love with the force; he was in love with the uniform. So when he saw what had transpired in 2002, he was shocked. But more than anything else, he felt sorry for the force. The way the policemen had barged into our house showed us how they stripped away dignity and discipline from the uniform.

There is something special about the police uniform, or any other uniform for that manner. A man who wears even the driver's uniform transforms his behaviour. The uniform commands some respect. Similarly, any police officer would stand up to greet the lady-wife, even if she is the wife of one's junior officer.

But none of that respect for the uniform or the senior officer or for the lady-wife was to be seen, when 35 policemen barged into our house, without any prior intimation or without any search warrant. We realised that this was dictated and threatened to them, on the lines of “Go and abuse your senior officer.”

Sanjiv would discuss everything with me, so I knew what needed to be spoken or asked at the right time. When he decided to speak aloud, we knew that there would be repercussions. But we never dreamt that the police force could stoop to such low levels. When they came to my house, they began to dig through every item. Few of them would apologise for what they were doing, stating that they were under compulsion to conduct such a behaviour. I said nothing to them, because I knew that this was Modi's ways of harassing us, to break our morale. I never resisted what they were doing either. I told filmmaker Mahesh Bhatt, “I thought it was only in Hindi films that cops barge into people's homes and throw up clothes and everything around in their search operations. But we saw this happening with our own eyes, in our own home, by the same police force that Sanjiv loves.” मुझे अब तो इस फोर्स पर घिन आती है (I look down at the Force with disdain now). 

The IPS Officers' Association was lying defunct for several years, but then I heard that they had a meeting after many years, when Sanjiv was arrested. Some of Sanjiv's peers would call me up on my landline phone and ask me in whispers, “Can we do anything for you Shweta?” I would reply to them, “At least begin to talk a bit louder so that I can hear you clearly!” This is the level of fear among the officers.

Only one who lives in Gujarat can correctly define the word 'subversion'. Men from the IB (Intelligence Bureau) had begun to jot the phone numbers and car numbers of every visitor discreetly. I finally asked one of those constables to stop behaving like a thief in copying the car number plate. Now, they just thoroughly question the visitor.

We learnt that Special Public Prosecutor SV Raju was being paid Rs 1.5 crore to 'manage' the court proceedings, and on Fridays, he was being paid some more so that the remand would drag onto the next week. But it was heartening to see the media come to the courts daily, to watch the proceedings. When he was finally granted bail, everyone cheered aloud 'Singham'! This sudden fame and hero worship has been overwhelming, yet assuring us about what Sanjiv had done.

I am sure many more policemen would have much to talk about to, but not all have the courage to do so. They are bound by other restrictions. But then again, we have been fortunate to have found the support and strength from so many different directions. So far it has been believed that anyone who speaks against Modi is the enemy. But something changed this year. On Dusshera day, at several places across Gujarat, Modi was portrayed as the Raavan and Sanjiv was portrayed as Singham!

The protection that the Home Ministry is offering us is so weak – just three men, and only one of them with a gun. We do fear for our lives. One of the constables comes with us wherever we go. But now Sanjiv has to travel to Jamnagar for his cases, or even Delhi. He is also being invited at various fora across the country, wanting him to speak to eager audiences. He cannot say refuse such invitations because now it is our time to stand with them. He is the hope for many people today. They stood by us in what was our dark hour when Sanjiv was arrested. But all this travel means he is being watched all the time. The phones are tapped; his official phone number has been cancelled. These are Modi's ways of harassing anyone standing against him.

Sanjiv kept on insisting the SIT that he should be summoned to give his statements. But they ignored him because they knew that मोदी का पोल खुल जाएगा (Modi's secrets would be out). Why is Modi afraid of Sanjiv? Because Sanjiv has everything to say which Modi wants to hide.

What Modi did in 2002 was nothing short of a systematic and well-funded killing of Gujarat, which was once a truly prosperous and harmonious state. We never had a communal flare-up before Modi reign. BJP has changed that picture of Gujarat. There are flyovers being made in Kanpur; there are flyovers being made in Allahabad; there are flyovers being made in Ahmedabad. So why are just flyovers being deemed as development? There is no development in Gujarat; on the contrary, we are moving backwards.

Many have asked skeptically, why is Sanjiv speaking out now? Has he done it for Congress? My answer is this: there is something beyond politics, and that is one's one soul and conscience. Sanjiv is doing what he is doing for himself, and in doing so, to prevent any such communal flare-up ever again.

For all those 18 days when Sanjiv was in jail, my 75-year-old father, despite his ailing knees, would arrive here at 9 am each day, to be with me. People whom I had never known would just come home – they were people from different human rights groups, students from colleges, and others who had no group or organisation as their affiliation. I was buying up to 45 packets of milk everyday, for a constant supply of tea or nimboo paani to the visitors. That strength they offered was unbelievable. They knew that Sanjiv was doing the right thing.

Many many many people stood with candles every evening when Sanjiv was in jail. They would come and say, “We are with you.” We were at the mall the other day, and at least 12 people walked to our table and said to Sanjiv, “You are a brave man. We are proud of what you have done. We are with you.” Saniv and I wonder what it is that they mean by “We are with you.” We wonder if the people uttering those words would also know what they mean by that sentence. But we are happy to hear those words and are assured to know that people can see between right and wrong.

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Be it on the streets....

Or on the bus....

On a residential building's wall...

Or on the concrete fence of a beautiful garden....

Just remember: Modi Bhai Is Watching You. It isn't anymore surprising that 'Modi' rhymes with 'moti', which, in Gujarati means 'big'. Literally, Big Brother is Watching You, in Gujarat!

When Modi Bhai isn't watching you directly, he urges you to look up at the photograph of Hrithik Roshan, which in reality is the compulsion for you to check out the gymnasium that has been sponsored by the Hindu Saamrajya Sena (Hindu Imperial Army).

Note: all of the photographs above have been taken within a stretch of 300 metres. On another day in South Gujarat, when I had to change 8 buses, I greeted Modi on each bus as he waved to me from the bus's side panels.