In an attempt to collect the pink slip that would allow my free movement in the city for the next four days, I thought the risk was worth it. After all, what good is a journalist cooped up in his or her home at a time when the job requires you to bear witness to what is happening outside?
A group of Central Reserve Police Force (CRPF) personnel stopped me as soon as I stepped out of the gate. “If there was a curfew in Delhi, would you step out?” he asked. “Yes, I’m a journalist and I need to get my curfew pass,” I replied. There have been several curfew days in the last three months and I’ve stepped out before, I added. He checked my credentials, and let me proceed. The pedestrian after me wasn’t so lucky despite the fact he had a curfew pass.
Negotiating my way through five groups of argumentative CRPF personnel posted from Rajbagh to Broadway, I finally heaved a sigh of relief. Had I been a local, there was no way in hell I would’ve been allowed to make the trek. The fact that I look Indian and I’m a woman also helped.
By that evening, I was a proud owner of a brand new curfew pass. The following morning, which was Monday, I decided to push my luck and pay a visit to SKIMS. I checked with the doctors, and as per their advise boarded an ambulance from Jehangir Chowk at 7 am.
All along the route to the chowk, the police and the CRPF recognised me. One of the CRPF guys near my house even said, “Good morning, madam.” I thought, wouldn’t it be nice if they used that tone with Kashmiris too. Such a difference it would make. But I, unlike the rest, live in fool’s paradise.
On curfew days and regular days, I walk a lot in the city to take photographs. Some of the policemen and CRPF that morning let me through because they recognised my camera, I guessed. “Madam, I’ve seen you in Maisuma several times during protests,” said a cop. I politely nod and walk on after showing my credentials and explaining repeatedly what I was doing out there.
The only people out on the street were men in uniform and cops in civilian clothes, lots of other government employees from the security sector in cars without number plates and hospital staff on their way to work in ambulances.
While waiting for the ambulance, one of the CRPF guys flagged down a man on a scooter and ordered him to drop me and my friend to SKIMS. This was mighty embarrassing for all three of us. I declined, saying that the ambulance was a better option and they should let that poor man go. Finally, common sense prevailed. How easily things could have gone the other way.
Upon my return from the hospital, I was dropped on M A Road and had to walk home. I decided to take another route. I was stopped by the CRPF before the bridge. “Where do you think you’re going?” he asked, while the rest of his crew gawked. “Home,” I said. “Where are you returning from?” he persisted. “Work.”
He wasn’t about to give up easily, “Don’t you know its curfew. I didn’t see you earlier on in the day walk from here.” I told him that was because I had a curfew pass and I had taken the bund. Finally, he let me go. But a man with a curfew pass behind me got assaulted with a lathi by a local cop. Nothing feels as rotten as a potent concoction of helplessness and fear. I waited for a few seconds and walked on. I turned back, praying that they had let the man go. Strangely enough, the guy had started walking in my direction as if nothing had happened. Then the realisation hit me, he must be so used to it that lathis failed to faze him. Only if the cop had greeted him, “Good evening”, instead, I thought, shaking my head. That would have stunned the wits out of the poor man.
That evening, as I made my way home from the Abdullah bridge, all sounds drowned as the birds squawked at their loudest from a chinar tree by the river. I felt like they were trying to compensate for those who were not allowed to protest all day. And this time, there was no tear gas shelling, no rubber bullets, no SLR rounds, no metal pellets, only unbelievably loud squawks. At least, the birds were free in the curfewed Valley.
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