I had a string of phone calls with Kavita (the Regional Editor for the Chitrakoot-Banda edition of Khabar Lahariya) this weekend: on planning the follow up to a farmer compensation story; about her health; a tirade on reporterly misconduct. Tempers rose as did the heat outside. The last call tipped me over the edge.
She’d been called in to give a statement in a case of harassment that she and other members of the Khabar Lahariya team had filed two months ago (watch this space for more on this sordid story). The harami (excuse Kavita’s french) cop at the ‘crime branch’, housed within the office of the Superintendent of Police in Banda, denied having seen any previous evidence or statements presented by the KL reporters. He wanted Kavita to provide him ‘proof’ of harassment, threatening that the case could easily turn against them in court if she didn't 'cooperate'. Part of the assistance he wanted from Kavita to move the case along, was to perform for him the exact abuses used by the accused in the case. Kavita refused.
Last week, in the throes of finalising pages to send to press, we had a call from a man in Hamirpur district - where our Mahoba edition often reaches - asking if we had vacancies. He was confused, even hurt by our response. 'Sirf ladieson? Accha, mujhe laga gentson ka kaam hai’ (It's only for ladies? Oh, I thought this was men's work). I thought his assumption was hilarious at the time, despite the banality of a man in Bundelkhand expecting that a newspaper in these parts would be looking to hire a man (only).
It veers between being absurdly funny, and infuriating, and heartbreaking, to think how fairly this still reflects our everyday situation; actually, the undeniable underbelly of every story we manage to break. In the UP Sampark Kranti, there is always likely to be a man diagonally across from your side upper berth who will stare at you unblinkingly for hours at a stretch, oblivious to your response. Or then undress down to his vest-and-undies right in front of you. On the night bus between two major cities, say, Banaras and Lucknow, there is still a man who will undo his pants in excitement that you’re sitting next to him. In a police station in Banda, a cop is likely to be playing with his fly as you complete your interview. Before sunrise on a Saturday morning, an alcoholic jeep driver will call you, again and again, and again, for favours in return for the paper delivery.
Some of this has to do with being a journalist in the hinterland. But most of it is just about how we almost always feel like we’re occupying a place which is marked ‘gentson ke liye’, and the scope of the imagination of those we work with, leave alone reality, hasn’t been altered by the tremendous changes taking place around them.
Celebrating 13 years of Khabar Lahariya, tears, furies and staying power, despite the invisibility of change.
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Disha Mullick, has been with KL since 2007. Disha brings to KL experience from mainstream print journalism. Focusing on fundraising, marketing and outreach, Disha brings new and crazy ideas to KL and has the tough job of convincing everyone why new can be good.
