Smart Politics: Co-option, Calculation and the Will to Win

Notes from Banda on counting day, also known as the day when the BJP tsunami engulfed U.P.

At dusk on a rooftop in Banda after the state election results, the air feels cool, the sky is luminous, so much so that the outline of a spectacular almost full moon is only partially visible. The streets are returning to their evening frenzy. Children return from tuition classes and come out to play. A pair of kites flirt in the distance, behind a fluttering blue flag with an elephant on it. Banda town is usually anything but quiet, but today the end of day brings a kind of meditativeness. Some shock, some disbelief.

On our right is a building imposing in its height and arches, yet its exposed brick and emptiness rendering it somewhat despairing. The building belongs to a relative of the BSP leader Nasimuddin Siddiqui, whose own sprawling house is behind us, where the elephant flutters. Today, it feels like an apt symbol of loss, of failure of strategies to build a new image and political success for the party, to be led by Siddiqui himself. ‘It came up this high in Mayawati’s time, then work stopped once she went out of power. Now it’s going to be in this state another 5 years atleast,’ says our slender but opinionated Dalit host. ‘I agree with Behenji, there should be a re-election. There is definitely some gadbadi.’ Shivbaran is from Kamasin in Baberu assembly constituency. ‘We heard two names only during the campaign. Kiran Yadav (BSP) and Bishambar Yadav (SP). No one had even heard of the other candidate (Chandrapal Kushwaha of the BJP) – and he won by over 20,000 votes. It’s not possible.’ When we asked if perhaps many Dalits had not voted as expected, or as claimed, for the BSP, and maybe caste had not been as predictable a card in this election, our other host interrupts, ‘But what about people in our own homes and villages, who we knew? It’s not possible. Even I went to the booth wanting to vote for someone different this time, and I was so convinced of wanting youth and modernity and change. I really thought Akhilesh was doing his best to keep the BJP out of UP. But at the end, I pressed the elephant, inspite of myself. Maybe because the BSP candidate was a woman, maybe because I had met and knew her. But whatever you say, in the end caste does matter in UP.’

Only an hour before, the streets heading away from Galla Mandi, where votes had been counted, were thick and loud with ecstatic saffron faces. The celebration slipped seamlessly from performative – saffron selfies and cheers of Jai Sri Ram and Bharat Mata ki Jai – to mob-style, expanding in size and power and fearsomeness. Somewhere ahead, Gayacharan Dinkar, the erstwhile MLA from Naraini constituency, a seat reserved for Scheduled Castes, addressed an impromptu Q and A. ‘In America, votes are cast on ballot paper. In Japan, a country far ahead of us in technological advancement, electronic voting machines have been declared faulty. But we’re still using them.’ Asked about the anger of voters at his absence in the constituency throughout his term and failure to address their problems, he responded, ‘There are some villages, like Makhanpur and Mohanpurva, who say they will boycott every time. I have made a road that connects them to the main thoroughfare. They must have had some new demands this time.’

Beyond the crowds, in a timber warehouse by the roadside, a group of local reporters gathered to discuss the results. The conversation was sealed with the understanding that they all had to take care of themselves and their expenses – footed in large part by political parties and leaders – and so no names would be named, no analysis would be too probing. But off record, they were businesslike about the repercussions of this pasa palatna, this shocking change of the political tide. ‘Look at the kind of sloganeering, isn’t it going to make some communities fearful? You mark my words, there will be violence, there will be riots.’ ‘There will be more intense casteism, Brahmanism – there will be murders, rapes – in other words, life as usual for us reporters…’ One Dalit reporter claimed that the upper castes were put out by the misuse of the SC/ST atrocities act in the previous BSP regime, and so moved away from supporting that party. Another claimed that the BJP’s promises to tackle the mining mafia once and for all swung votes in their favour in the rural belts of Bundelkhand.

But also clear from the part thrill, part fear, part exuberance at the political swing that is the BJP’s sweep of Uttar Pradesh – from Banda, a Congress stronghold, and with no precedent of allowing the BJP in – is that this was coming. Shock and disbelief, and the blaming of technology was more than misplaced. At a dhaba in Banda, a pair of students discussed how all seats had been won on Modi’s merit, and how this was what they had all expected, and hoped for, ‘Us Phd students in the University, and even all the political groups there, this is the result we all wanted.’ For months, Whatsapp groups in this district and the adjoining Mahoba and Chitrakoot had reminded journalists, administrators, businessmen, students of the consequences of Hindus not joining forces – Kairana aur Bangladesh dekhne ke liye tayyar rahen. Messages asked pointedly, if people had to chose a leader to nurture their 8-year old child for 5 years, who would they chose? The options were Rahul Gandhi, Mayawati, Mulayam or Shivpal Singh, Lalloo Prasad, Mamta Banerji, Digvijay Singh, and Narendra Modi. They exhorted Hindus to come together, to bring victory (abki baar 300 paar), to make the lotus bloom, to build the Ram temple and paint the world saffron.

Outsiders as they may have been to UP, as contentious as ticket allocations had been, as unfamiliar as candidates were to their constituencies, they had an ear to the ground. They were able to twist discontent with the incumbent government, and disillusionment with the too-distant vision of the BSP into an all-powerful formula. ‘Saaf kar diya is belt ko, Mubarak ho aapko,’ said a buxom travelling mate. Calculations and strategies aside, what can be more fearful than a majoritarian, self-righteous politics that feels that it is justified in any action it may take, or condone? Let us just say, we have never felt more fearful in 15 years of reporting in dakuland, as we felt in that homogenous sea of saffron, choti-wielding, male celebration.

The Women Who Walked in Nobody’s Shadow

Notes from the field on polling day

They came from places where tears hold more water than most ponds. Or hand pumps.
They came from rural cobblestoned lanes where even seasoned thekedaars are too scared to build roads, lest dacoits intervene. (And the dacoits, we learn, are getting younger and younger here).

The cobblestones here are not your hill station dream stroll, so longed for, slated for holidays, but a hard, tough road where road rollers haven’t deigned yet to reach. On stones cut possibly by these women, they walked in block colours, uniformly covering face with ghunghat, feet in chappals.

Sometimes looking out for each other, in twos or small groups.

Sometimes walking in a single file.

This was no song and dance stuff. Voting had started, booths opened at 7 am and they knew what they were heading towards. Together. Clutching a white little something in their hands.

One cannot, in all likelihood, think of any other day in the year when the tar that criss-crosses India sees the shadow of so many ID cards on its indifferent turf – all in the span of a day. One can’t really tell if the fingers gripping the pehchaan patras are chapped, but visceral memories of hands held remind us of the softness that is sandpapered by circumstance and the vicious yet polite fatalism that mixes with feudalism in these parts.

What is unarguably certain is that the I-card or the parchi or the Aadhaar is held firmly, and matter-of-factly as they carry on. With the modicum of possibility, a change in leadership brings. Everything in their gait, pretty much the opposite of drama queen. As we walk past them and smile, they smile back tentatively and it is only when their eyes fully meet ours that the smile spreads full beam, as it often happens between women. A spontaneous connect.

We know these women. They are the first adivaasis to farm on hard land in hilly Bargarh, which used to be thick forest once upon a time. They are those in whose sickle-armed hands crops have grown, crops have died, due to less rain and no water channels. They are those you can hear the sighs of in Panhai just as they load their heads with wood to catch a train and sell it the same day. The equation in their heads being, one meal for their family that night.

She could be 19-year-old Sangeeta from a Dalit family in Bhauri, closer to Karwi town, who works a sewing machine after returning from college.

She could be a stone crusher. A stone quarrier. A construction site labourer, and MNREGA job card holder – the women mazdoors of Bundelkhand are, after all, keeping a very strained rural economy afloat.

But they are not a vote bank yet, enough for somebody to specially look out for them.

On a daily wage, a day off for voting is simply money not earned. How does one calculate the daily loss they must have incurred, we wonder, as we see them walk back home in the blistering noon sun? What GPS in the world can grasp these kilometres of hope against hope?

While the women walked, the men talked. In groups, on bikes and tractors that they rode on to go vote. Public transport was missing on a day which is meant to create governments for, of and by the people. And so it was that they walked through farm fields and pagdandis, alongside railway tracks, and crouching under faataks. A landscape that scrubs you into immediate submission, from the mud that falls off the craggy walls, locally called morem, which is only deceptively spongy with stones lurking underneath. It is also all dusty as subtle hell. There are plants withering away in the unexpected February heat, a heat that hits the skin like a family tree of blossoming prickly heat. As you go along this undulating cragginess, you suddenly hit a non-perennial rivulet and a rocky tapering cliff that again seems gently reclining, but is known to go from dry to slippery and steep to stuck in a matter of seconds.

It’s the kind of landscape that has a way of making a place in your heart with its ruffian turns, but it also never quite lets you forget how it holds heart crushing truths within. The Vindhyas here maybe a broken chain of mountains as is the delivery of public goods by the netas, but there was something else tangible on voting day in Bundelkhand. Something in the forgotten promise of the nation state – that we are all equal as citizens. Or can perhaps hope to be for a day.

These women didn’t wait to find out. They walked maybe thinking of these things. Not as a protest march, but a silencer guide for everyday doers. Quietly. Willingly. Showing up, in a spirit that voting percentages can hardly fathom.

The voting centres were curiously all called Adarsh Matdaan Kendras. Cynics can bullet point this as a futile urgency, commentators can go into clichéd loops about how democracy wins, but from first timers to bent by (literally) time old timers, the women of Bundelkhand came from the bruised corners of this, our nation-statehood, putting a silencer on the need to show or demand group validation, be it selfie or state policy.
Whoever wins their vote, they have already won ours.

Tisha Srivastav, a part time editorial consultant with Khabar Lahariya sends in snapshots of her experiences in Bundelkhand reporting, with Bundelkhandi reporters. Catch her live-tweeting some of the action here!

MOBILE IN BANDA: DAY SIX 

Some straight talk with Banda's working women 

The same forthright political science teacher, Dr. Laxmi Tripathi, regales us with an unexpected story about a politician, elections and patriarchy. Apparently, a Mahavir Singh, from Banda who was a deputy minister in CM Sampoornanand’s cabinet of yore, did not allow his wife to go out and vote and is said to have lost by one vote. (A google search later throws up the name of said politician in a Paul Brass book reference, but no mention of this story) It is nevertheless a great opener for a welcome chat with a teacher, who as she says herself, encourages young students to vote for their future. What party affiliation that means, you are welcome to guess. A genial history teacher sitting next to her, reminds us that the sitting MP from BJP, has done nothing for Banda’s greatly forgotten neighbour, the Kalinjar fort. Not even in the name of tradition that they keep harping on, not even in the name of adopting villages, a la Modi, which the sitting MP too has, in Kalinjar. Kalinjar is a major site evoking multiple Indian vintage, be it Ramayana, Mahabharat, Kala Bhairava, the water tank heritage of Bundelkhand or the shell that is said to have killed Sher Shah Suri here.

Some straight speak from the women of the land, recorded by a straight shooter Khabar Lahariya reporter.

The latter continue to report on the places they call home, village, town or in between. Learning in the process to see home for what it is - changing and unchanged.
A mobile camera and jazba, ground up voices sharing editorial material pronto on WhatsApp, while continuing to have its print newspaper. Khabar Lahariya - the pyjama maybe old, but newer drawstrings, ever welcome I say.

Tisha Srivastav, a part time editorial consultant with Khabar Lahariya sends in snapshots of her experiences in Bundelkhand reporting, with Bundelkhandi reporters. Catch her live-tweeting some of the action here!

MOBILE IN BANDA: DAY FIVE 

Political meva, Hindu-Muslim seva?

The official notice board resembling a sarkari board, bureaucrat on duty style, highlights a Muslim and a Hindu, at the SP zila office.

He praises Meera to the skies, even as she is unmoved by this very sudden public adulation. The Hindu-Muslim rhetoric in Mullah Mulayam terrain, reminds me that the story of this town which knows violence intimately, yet has an unghettoised Hindu-Muslim social fabric, deserves unravelling. But for now, this is election season and you can see rows of keds have replaced chappals, as mineral water bottles have replaced ghadaas. Meeting a politician thus, is also an exercise in watching waste being generated, one of the apathetic side-lines of generous local hospitality. 

This particular candidate’s switch from Samaajwadi Party to Congress to SP to now the gathbandhan has a local political science teacher fuming, ‘ Candidates have moved parties but this business of a daughter gets ticket from one party, another relative in another party – this is new and shows the value placed on power, not ideals.’ Her remark reminds me of the meeting with the said candidate, who when he finally arrives, proceeds to waylay reporter Meera’s question of charges against him, with a proud dabang response, ‘we got the bureaucrat who made those charges transferred.’ Meera walks out silently and also, a trifle relieved, that the chase over this guy, is done. After a day of chasing politicians with all their drama of power, it is a relief when Meera suggests a trip to the Mahavidyalaya, where we find these teachers.

Tisha Srivastav, a part time editorial consultant with Khabar Lahariya sends in snapshots of her experiences in Bundelkhand reporting, with Bundelkhandi reporters. Catch her live-tweeting some of the action here!

बरगद की छाँव: बुंदेलखंड से एक प्रेम कहानी 

मार्च के महीने की कड़ी धूप थी पर हम दोनों की बातें मानो बरगद की छाँव जैसे लग रही थी। 

पॉडकास्ट यहाँ सुने 

मेरा नाम रूचि है। यह मार्च के महीने की बात है, सुबह के 11 बज रहे थे। हलकी हल्की धुप थी, मैं कॉलेज से वापस घर आ रही थी। जैसे ही मैं अपने मोहल्ले में पहुंची तो सुनसान रस्ते में हलकी धुप तेज़ हुई और तभी सामने से एक लड़का आते दिखाई दिया। हाथ में बैग लेकर, वह सांवले रंग का था। पहले मैंने उसको एक अजनबी के रूप में देखा, पर जैसे ही वह मेरे पास आया तो उसने मुझे रोका। मैं अचानक से चौंक गयी। मैंने मुड़कर देखा और मेरे मन में कई तरह के सवाल आ रहे थे। इससे पहले के मैं उससे कुछ पूछ पाती, उसने मुस्कुरा कर धीमी आवाज़ में पुछा, “तुम कहाँ गयी थी?” मैंने जवाब दिया कि कॉलेज से आई हूँ, जब मैंने उससे परिचय पूछा तो उसने ज़ोर से हँसते हुए कहा, “अच्छा, तो तुम मुझे नहीं जानती हो?” तो मैंने कहा नहीं। तब उसने मुझे बताया की वो सेम कॉलेज से है।  फिर मैंने दुबारा से नाम पता पूछा, तो उसने बताया कि 15 किलोमीटर दूर के गाउँ का रहना वाला है। फिर कहा कि उसे कुछ जल्दी काम और चला गया। इसके बाद मैंने उसके बारे में सोचा भी नहीं।

तीसरे दिन हम फिर कॉलेज गए, पेपर देने, उसका भी पेपर था। हम दोनों फिर वहां मिल गए और हँसते हुए पढाई के बारे में बात करते हुए चलने लगे। 2 किलोमीटर इस तरह हम दोनों पैदल चलते रहे और रोड तक आ गए।

मार्च के महीने की कड़ी धूप थी पर हम दोनों की बातें मानो बरगद की छाँव जैसे लग रही थी। रस्ते भर हम दोनों ने एक दूसरे के काम के बारे में पूछा। वह पहले से मेरे घर परिवार के बारे में जानता था। उसने मुझसे मेरा नंबर माँगा। मुझे उसकी मुस्करा कर बात करने और खुल कर बात करने की आदत बहुत पसंद आई। वह महिलओं और लड़कियों के बारे में सोचता था। उसकी सबसे अच्छी बात मुझे यही लगी की महिलाओं को आगे आते देखकर उसको ख़ुशी होती थी।

पता चला कि वह दिल्ली में रह कर कंपनी में काम करता था, और उसने कहा कि अगर  मुझे कभी किसी चीज़ की जानकारी की ज़रूरत पड़ी तो वो मेरा सहयोग कर सकता है। मैंने उसको अपना नंबर दे दिया, और और हम दोनों अपने-अपने घर चले गए। पर मैंने उसका नंबर सेव नहीं किया।

दिल्ली जाकर उसने एक दिन कॉल किया। जब पहली बार उसका फ़ोन आया और उसने अपना परिचय दिया तो अच्छा लगा, मुझे ख़ुशी हुई। हम दोनों 10 मिनट तक तो काम के बारे में बात करते रहे। उसके बाद जब भी उसका फ़ोन आता तो हम आधा आधा घंटे तक बात करते। उसने अपने दोस्तों और अपने ऑफिस के काम के बारे में बताया। संडे के दिन क्योंकि उसका ऑफिस बंद रहता था और मैं भी फ्री होती थी, तो हम एक घंटे तक बात करते। हम दोनों खुल कर बात करते रहे। बातों-बातों में ही हमारा मनोरजन भी हो जाता है। अब तो बारिश का मौसम आ गया है, और हम इसी महीने में मिलने वाले है। उसके घर में कोई कार्यक्रम है तो मुझे बुलाया है। अभी हमने सोचा नहीं है की जायेंगे या नहीं, पर मैं कोशिश करुँगी।

अब आगे की कहानी सुनने के लिए तो इंतज़ार तो करना पड़ेगा, मुझे भी। 

MOBILE IN BANDA: DAY FOUR

Your Call is Waiting, Reporter Rani

Chasing politicians in party offices, in election season is more often than not, an unacknowledged your call is waiting, for a reporter. Meera navigates this calmly, but with the requisite determination that is a hallmark of a driven reporter. But an amusing or horrific moment is never far in election mela wait, is it? In the hall next door, there is a group of Samajwadi Party workers in their very red Nehru topis as a pappu soniye vote kar le film copytrack version flings raucous oorja into the gathering. The man holding the mike breaks into the most original local defence one can imagine, on the Mulayam-Akhilesh fracas that "once" was,‘Pyjama purana sahi, naada toh naya hona chahiye." (And then promptly breaks into a naara).

While he is saying this, the smaller office we are waiting in, is seeing a quintessential halwai moment. Mithai boxes of packed food are being stacked up for all the cheerleaders present, even as a hidden portrait of Ram Manohar Lohia looks down rather sternly. 

A middle aged man walks in periodically, to check if the stock of dabbas is intact and therefore not stolen, as the candidate we have all been waiting for, arrives. The political meva of Samajwadi Party rests on many things which haven’t all reached the folk at Banda. Neither good roads, nor the Lucknow-loving journalistic claim of the Helpline for Women. 

Some of the Dalit all-women reporter troops of Khabar Lahariya have received laptops, but don’t have much of electricity to charge it with, in their often rural homes. Classic, I know. 

Tisha Srivastav, a part time editorial consultant with Khabar Lahariya sends in snapshots of her experiences in Bundelkhand reporting, with Bundelkhandi reporters. Catch her live-tweeting some of the action here!

MOBILE IN BANDA

Day Three: Aur bhi share rides hai zamaane mein Ola-Uber ke siwa

While moving around town, the battery charged e-rickshaws are a convenient hop on and off way to navigate gullies, in a way that buses simply aren’t here. Watching Meera, the Khabar Lahariya reporter I've teamed up with in Banda, I realise, it is also an open negotiation on rates, distance and the driver’s mood. Me, being there, is possibly an opportunity to sometimes charge higher. But a seasoned local, who actually hails not from Banda proper, she rejects many who charge a rupee more than the Rs 10 or 15 rupees. My Bangalore based mind does a Faiz update in the head – Aur bhi share rides hai zamaane mein Ola-Uber ke siwa.

Meera uses this mobile time too, to check WhatsApp messages from the rest of the reporting team. I let her be and wonder - walking through lanes where it is faster to walk than take the main roads, seeing an ole man cycle around, a kala-peela auto for only singularly outbound traffic and the buses near the Roadways stand, reminds me of what a complex pool of transportation is required to service a town, with both a strong rural closeness and keeping things close, within town. To move freely, the battery charged rickshaws feel rickety on comfort, but make ample sense to deliver folk in a smaller radius. A metro’s last mile connectivity option, would then become this town’s primary mode of transport, in a way that man-driven rickshaws and Vikrams in Lucknow used to be. Khabar Lahariya reporters navigate this daily, often without a blip. And given that they report from villages nearby, often on a daily basis, one’s respect for their time spent on the road navigating craters and mobile phone signals, only goes up. Although, roads quite clearly do not deserve respect here, but the chai stops at every corner provide the relief that #manythingsarkar rarely does.

For some inexplicable reason, I find myself thinking of the walking stick from Day One, as I see Meera, sip tea, while checking her mobile for journo info. She too, after all is a full on Mobile Jone. 

Tisha Srivastav, a part time editorial consultant with Khabar Lahariya sends in snapshots of her experiences in Bundelkhand reporting, with Bundelkhandi reporters. Catch her live-tweeting some of the action here!

MOBILE IN BANDA

MOBILE IN BANDA

Day Two: Can Working Women Drink Water at Will? And What of Nature's Call, If the Answer's Yes?

In another part of town, Meera runs after a byte of one of the nomination filing candidates she has been chasing for many, many days now. I wait out with the female cops at the entrance of the sarkari office. I no longer own a Press Card, so the sudden eruption of the security apparatus on filing nomination day, means- wait outside. I, being the outsider but woman, get to wait, just inside the gate, with the women cops. 

Who among other things on a day long duty, have been dying to pee?

It is pure torture to see a For MEN ONLY loo right by the entrance and men periodically going to relieve themselves.

The women discuss a search of the premises in batches of two, to find a suitable spot, in what seems like a District Collectorate campus. Long after two of the older lady cops have admitted defeat and gone off in one direction to hide and pee, two of the younger women cops, cheerfully return to tell the group that there is a working loo, right at the back of the campus and that it was locked. Their relieved smiles, also indicate perhaps one broken lock. A little while later, Meera emerges from the office, I offer her water and she knowingly smiles and takes just a sip. For working female reporters in a town like Banda, drinking one full glass of water, means spending some time then, looking for a place to pee. Good middle ground wisdom is to sip a little and not quite be pee-Eveready. For all that we say, sitting in Delhi, about the number of women in journalism, one glance at the press cadre present to take bytes on filing nomination day here, it is 99.9 per cent male, save Meera.

MOBILE IN BANDA

Day One: Two Mobile Jones and one Meera

An old person’s walking stick hangs, under an equally slanting Mobile Jone signboard, on what seems like a chowkish road in Banda in southern Uttar Pradesh. For a non-resident UP-ite like me, it is actually a welcome sign. Of trust in little things like leaving unguarded walking sticks outside locked doors.

The world often hears of this area as one of the many dacoit counties in the region, where a chain and lock on the simplest of things might feel normal. Or maybe in the time of mobile phones, who would have use of stealing this other older mobility now? There is a soft-spoken, self-absorbed amiability to the Banda air, quite typical of Eastern UP small towns. Yet unmistakeable to one who has inherited a grandmotherly gene from the region, such as yours truly.

This side of UP has both its straight shooters as well as those who never quite say what they mean. Something saree-clad veteran KL reporter Meera fills me in on, as we walk along, talking about deciphering what people really mean when they speak. This doublespeak, often lost on reporters who chopper in, with little understanding of local context. I sense there will be much to shed, excess woollens, being just one of them.

I’m here to work on some real time reportage inputs with Team Khabar Lahariya, in the midst of the UP Assembly election 2017. While Meera rehearses her first piece to camera for a story, a little girl returns from school and walks alone in a narrow, nearby alley. Can any outsider like me say, if this is trust or no choice/company?

Restful to even see this otherwise ordinary sight though, given the reality of the sex ratio statistics or the rape headlines, ever emerging from Bundelkhand. Just as reassuring to see Meera, totally lost in the job of the moment.

Tisha Srivastav, a part time editorial consultant with Khabar Lahariya sends in snapshots of her experiences in Bundelkhand reporting, with Bundelkhand reporters. This is the first of her series, around Banda town…

My First Visit to Barabanki (and other stories)

It sounded simple enough. We were going shoot a short documentary with Khabar Lahariya on debt, and its emotional and social impact on farmers. 

Simple, because we assumed our pivot was a clear story of a perpetrator, the system, and a victim, the farmer. It really did sound that simple, because you know, as self-respecting left liberals who had read every newspaper report from here to the American drought, we knew we were going to just throw a giant electric beam through this whole debt-suicide nexus.

48 hours with Khabar Lahariya journalist, Lakshmi, on one beat, to investigate one case, which has been registered as a farmer suicide, only taught us one thing.

That we know nothing.

'A farmer went outside the DM’s office in Barabanki and hung himself. KL is investigating. You know Lakshmi?' Alam, our driver, mumbles a sure, but what’s the film about? 'Umm, you know this whole culture of debt, the breakdown of agrarian economy…' 'I don’t know what you are talking about,' he interrupts. 'I’ve just come back from my village, my uncle’s farm. All the wheat is fine. So, what else do you know?'

Lakshmi sits cross-legged, and swaps between five Whatsapp windows while taking us through the case. 'The question is, how did he get three bank loans against the same piece of land?'She tries the number of the inspector in-charge for the umpteenth time. 'We need to see the FIR.' She has just travelled an hour to meet us, changed three buses, and now sits calculating how much interest it takes for a Dalit farmer in UP to run up credit of 15 lakhs.

The tree from which Asharam was found hanging is probably a young peepal, which sits halfway between the Barabanki district court on the left, and the Barabanki police station on the right. We go right. The Investigating Officer is in court, but a team of opinionated men surround Lakshmi and me with chairs. 'Let’s discuss the connection between debt and suicides in farmers?' asks Lakshmi. 'Well, statistically speaking, there are as many suicides in other professions. Lots of people kill themselves, why are you only looking at farmers?' said one man, not in uniform, but with the authority of one. 'What does the post-mortem say?' replies Lakshmi.

'I’m going to give you information only because you’ve come all this way in the sun,' says the investigating officer magnanimously, when he arrives. 'When I take a loan I can’t even sleep at night. I know I have to return it. But these people, they take a loan to repay a previous loan. Why? It’s like they don’t understand money. And the government keeps announcing subsidies around every election. Yeh loan maaf.Voh loan maaf. So, they feel they don’t have to return it.'

Lakshmi asks for the FIR one more time. The investigating officer doesn’t hand it to her, but reads it out loudwhilethe whole station stands rapt. The FIR is against a Suresh Chand for lending money to Asharam against the land of the deceased’s best friend Vijay, without any written paperwork, and then putting pressure on the deceased such that he was driven to kill himself.

'Why did Vijay mortgage his land for someone else?' asks Lakshmi, to no one in particular, on our way to Bhul Bhuliya, the village of the deceased.

Asharam’s ample house glistens with its fresh coat of pink. His wife, two sons, and brother-in-law, answer Lakshmi in automation. I don’t know how much the debt is, they say. I don’t know how much he owed the bank, she says. The government hasn’t helped me, except for the seven lakh rupee cheque she says. I want free education for my sons. 'Who did you file the FIR against?' asks Lakshmi. 'We haven’t filed any FIR,' says the brother-in-law. 'But the FIR has your name on it,' says Lakshmi. 'I never filed it,' says the brother-in-law.

Suresh walks out of his thatched home, dressed in little more thana thread across his chest. 'I knew someone would come,' he says and waits for us to start recording. 'I know I have an FIR against me because Amar Ujala reported it. But I have not been served any notice,' he says with practised calm. 'You lent money to Asharam?' asks Lakshmi. 'Does it look like I have money to lend?' We get batashas. And tea. 'I’ve legally bought Vijay’s land, and I’ve been giving him money. Now what he does with that is his problem.' Lakshmi asks what he means by legally. He doesn’t stir, but two copies of stamp paper magically appear, each bearing a photograph of Suresh Chand and Vijay Yadav. Lakshmi reads silently. More women and children appear from the same house, waiting for something. 'Okay, I need a record of this,' says Lakshmi, and takes photographs of the documents on her phone.

'The question you need to ask is, what is the relationship between Vijay and Asharam? Unke gehre sambandh ke baare mein hum nahin bata sakte. It’s too dirty,' says Suresh Chand, not moving a muscle.

We sit on a charpai outside Vijay’s house because he has gone to cremate someone. On his return, he mics himself up with the deftness of a final year film school student. 'You see, a harijan can’t sell his land – so I offered to mortgage mine because Asharam was very dear to me.' So, you must know about his debt. 'No, I didn’t know that, else I would’ve dissuaded him from taking this step,' says Vijay, practising for court. 'I don’t understand,' says Lakshmi. 'How can you be his best friend and not know how much debt he has?'

Lakshmi does not speak for the ride home. Trucks’ headlights fall on her and fade, but she does not speak. What is the story, then, I ask her. 'I don’t know yet. But I still want to see the bank papers. How did three banks give him a loan and against what…'

Yes, okay but are we following her investigating a farmer’s suicide then? 'I guess not,' she said. 'I also need to check how there are no eye witnesses to the hanging.'

**
Click here to watch a video that attempts to tell this murky tale.

Shabani Hassanwalia is the co-founder of Hit and Run Films, an independent film company, which engages with changing socio-political-personal realities through non-fiction cinema.

शादी पर रिपोर्टिंग के साइड इफेक्ट्स

2003 की बात है। खबर लहरिया की शुरूवात ही हुई थी। अखबार का पहला साल पूरा होने वाला था कि अचानक एक खबर को लेकर बवाल मच गया। रेहुटियां गांव में दहेज मांगने को लेकर लड़के वालों को लड़की पक्ष ने तीन दिन तक गांव के प्राइमरी स्कूल में बंद कर रखा था। इस खबर को खबर लहरिया की पत्रकार सोनिया मानिकपुर से लाई थी।   

खबर को पढ़ कर लड़के वालों को बहुत बुरा लगा। उनका मानना था कि उनकी इज़्ज़त का सवाल था। उन लोगों ने खबर लहरिया में लिखित डाक द्वारा कानूनी नोटिस भेजा कि वह खबर लहरिया पर मुकदमा ठोक देंगे। साथ ही खबर लाने वाले पत्रकार को भी 'देख लेंगे'। उस नोटिस को देख थोड़ी देर के लिए मैं भी घबरा गई। सोनिया भी घबराई हुई थी क्योंकि वो मानिकपुर में ही रहती थी। अगर कोर्ट केस हो जाता तो हमारे पास अपनी सच्चाई साबित करने के लिए कुछ नहीं था। दिल्ली टीम से सुझाव लेकर मैं और सोनिया रेहुटियां गांव लड़की वालों के घर गए।

2012 में रिपोर्टिंग करती मीरा  (फोटो: दिशा मलिक)

गांव में घुसते ही लोग हमें ऐसे देख रहे थे जैसे हमने किसी की हत्या की हो। हम सुबह से दोपहर तक गांव में अलग-अलग लोगों से मिले पर कोई अपना नाम देने को तैयार नहीं था। अंत में हम लोगों को समझा पाए। लड़की वाले भी बाद में मान गए। दरअसल, लड़के वालों ने पहले तो दहेज के लिए मना किया था पर ऐन मौके पर लड़का टी.वी. मांगने लगा। लड़की इस बात को सुन कर गुस्सा हो गई और उसने शादी के लिए मना कर दिया था। इस बात को लेकर मारपीट भी हुई थी। तभी गांव वालों ने लड़के वालों को पकड़ कर तीन दिन तक स्कूल में बंद रखा था। 

इस खबर को कवर करते समय मैंने एक ऐसी बात सीखी जो आज तक मेरे साथ है - हमें बिना ठोस प्रूफ के कोई खबर को नहीं छापनी चाहिए। शायद उस दिन मेरी जगह रेहुटियां कोई और जाता तो लोगों का गुस्सा और भड़क जाता? मुझे पहली बार एक पत्रकार होने का एहसास हुआ और पत्रकार होने के नाते अपनी ज़िम्मेदारियाँ एक नई रौशनी में समझ आईं।

**

- मीरा जाटव खबर लहरिया अखबार से 2002 से जुड़ी हुई हैं। मीरा ने रिपोर्टिंग से शुरुआत की और आज विमेन मीडिया एंड न्यूज़ ट्रस्ट की चीफ ऑपरेशन्ज़ ऑफिसर हैं। चित्रकूट की रहने वाली मीरा खबर लहरिया के मैनेजमेंट का ज़रूरी हिस्सा हैं। 

Snakebirth in the Newsroom! Khabar Lahariya Then and Now

Thursday afternoon last week - May 2015. The file had gone to press. Production was over in a day and half. It felt strange. Kavita and Meera were discussing other issues - hiring new reporters, stringers, assigining duties to the marketing team....Flash back to May 2002.

As a feminist editorial team, we believed that process was as important as the product itself. There were six people in the Khabar Lahariya team - all six with different skill sets and varied levels of literacy. All six were present for the editorial meeting on the first day of production. Each person shared the stories she had gathered that week; each person was meant to give feedback on each story that was shared.

‘How can we have two stories from Manikpur block on the same page?' a young Kavita dared to raise this question in one editorial meeting. Sonia and Shanti, the two middle-aged reporters from Manikpur jumped down her throat – ‘We have been bringing stories from Manikpur even before you came into this world.' Before a rattled Kavita could reply, Meera’s wise reminder about not having two similar stories on the same page calmed people down.

A scene from the Banda office in 2005 (Photo Credit: Ami Vitale)

We spent the entire day arguing, eating our elaborate Bundelkhand meals and then at night, the same newsroom turned into a common bedroom! Everyone was happy to share the same space, the same plate and at times, the same quilt - including Kavita and Sonia! There were times when I felt like it was more than I could take in a day or maybe a lifetime, but there was no getting away. Process was sacred and how I felt really did not matter!

Day 2 

Back in the edit room, armed with drafts. Each person read her story, got feedback from everyone else, and then – some stoic, some stormy - began to rewrite. We respected diversity, but sometimes skill sets and life experiences would start competing, ‘You are padhi-likhi, college pass. Don’t you know that this scheme is only for families that are below the poverty line’?

Shanti’s story about a woman giving birth to a snake was questioned and dropped. She refused to eat. ‘How will I return to the village and explain how you all dropped this story that the entire village was witness to? This is the problem with young, kasba type people; you don’t understand what people in villages go through.' Several hours and conversations later I dragged Shanti to the doctor’s clinic in town. The quack turned doctor was in a tight spot. Here was an urban, educated person questioning his knowledge of science and medicine, but with her was a rural, potential client who he was likely to encounter again. He asked Shanti for a few insignificant details - which village was this, what time was ‘it’ born, who all were present there. Finally, after flipping through a few pages of some book he said, ‘I think it could have been a tapeworm.' Shanti looked aghast. I felt victorious. We returned and resumed the process, after Shanti had had her meal!

Day 3

The stories finally took some shape on day three. The illustrations were as rigorously debated as the stories. All six reporters – literate or semi literate - sat in the same room, leaning over computer operator and editors, ensuring not a word was edited without their approval. Power failures, technical problems, angry husbands at the gate: ‘Humein to kaam hi nahin karvaana hai... We don’t want our women to work, we know what’s going on here; which office requires its staff to stay four nights?’ This went on forever.

For the longest time I didn’t book a train ticket back to Delhi, not knowing when production would finally be over. It could be four days or five. Finally when Krishna boarded the bus to the press in Allahabad with the print outs and the floppy disk, I would go to the station, book my ticket and swear to myself that this ‘process’ had to change!

Thirteen years later, we’re as feminist as ever, but we are more efficient, our roles more defined and our offices more equipped with technology and power backups. Meera and Kavita have passed on the baton of editing drafts and I am certainly not present in Karwi during production. In body atleast.

**

Shalini Joshi is one of the founder members of Khabar Lahariya and has worked on issues of gender and justice for over 15 years.

Gents Only

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.

**

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.

दुर्गा वाहिनी या मिस इण्डिया?

(फोटो साभार: द वर्ल्ड बिफोर हर)

मैंने निशा पाहुजा की फिल्म ‘द वल्ड बिफोर हर’ देखी। वैसे मुझे डाक्युमेन्ट्री फिल्में पसंद नहीं हैं, लेकिन इस फिल्म को देखते समय मैं एक पल को भी अपना ध्यान नहीं हटा पाई। 

फिल्म में दो ऐसी लड़कियों की कहानी दिखाई गई है जिनकी सोच एक दूसरे से बिलकुल अलग है - एक जो मॉडर्न है और दूसरी जो इसके बिलकुल विपरीत। उसे हम पुराने खयालात वाली कहें या कट्टर - ये सोच सकते हैं।

एक लड़की मिस इंडिया बनने के लिये जाती है तो दूसरी दुर्गा वाहिनी (जो विश्व हिन्दू परिषद से जुड़ा है) के कैम्प में जहां उसे खुद की और हिन्दू धर्म की रक्षा करने की ट्रेनिंग दी जाती है। फिल्म देखकर मुझे एहसास हुआ कि दरअसल दोनों ही जगह लड़कियों का इस्तेमाल किया जा रहा है - क्योंकि दोनों ही जगह कमान तो मर्दों के ही हाथ में होती है। ये फिल्म आपको सोचने पर मजबूर कर देती है कि आप 'आत्मविश्वास' किसे कहेंगे - जो बहुत खूसूरत है या उसे जो बहुत ताकतवर है?

अगर दुर्गा वाहिनी कैम्प को देखें तो क्या जिन लड़कियों को यहां भेजा जाता है उन्हें सशक्त माना जाएगा? या उनके अन्दर बस नफरत भरी जाती है? दूसरी तरफ मिस इंडिया प्रतियोगिता में भाग ले रही लड़की अंकिता खुद पूछती है ‘हमें अपना मुकाम हासिल करना सिखाया जाता है लेकिन किस कीमत पर? मुझे बिकनी पहनना पसंद नहीं लेकिन पहनना पड़ा।’ वहीं दुर्गा वाहिनी कैम्प की लीडर प्राची के अपने सवाल हैं। वो शादी नहीं करना चाहती है लेकिन फिर खुद कहती है कि उसके मन में जो भी हो, शादी तो उसे करनी ही पड़ेगी। और तप और उसे दूसरी लड़कियों को भी यहीं बताना होगा कि शादी करो और बच्चे पैदा करो ताकि आने वाली पीढ़ी को तुम वो सिखा सको जो कैम्प में तुम्हें सिखाया जा रहा है। 

मुझे फिल्म देखते देखते ऐसा लगा कि कई बातें हैं जिनका आप पर असर ना पड़े या जिन्हें देखते ही आपको कुछ महसूस ना हो - ऐसा बहुत मुश्किल है। मुझे उस समय बहुत गुस्सा आया जब प्राची के पिता कहते हैं कि परिवार एक फैक्ट्री है जहां लड़कीयों को बनाया जाता है। मिस इंडिया प्रतियोगिता में भी जो ट्रेनर दिखाई गई हैं (मुझे उसका नाम याद नहीं आ रहा) वो भी कहती हैं कि प्रतियोगिता की ट्रेनिंग एक कैम्प, एक फैक्ट्री है जहां लड़कियों की खूबसूरती को तराशा जाता है। मानो वो इंसान कोई सामान हो! उसे ये तक बताया जाता है कि वो अगर कामयाब होकर निकली तो उसका 'मार्केट रेट' क्या होगा। 

एक चीज़ और याद आती है जिसके बारे में सोचकर मुझे हंसी और गुस्सा दोनों आते हैं। फिल्म में एक सीन है जिसमें प्राची के पिता लड़कियों के कपड़ों पर लम्बा चौड़ा भाषण देते हैं और पूरे समय खुद तीन-चार औरतों के बीच बस एक तौलिया लपेटे बैठे हैं। उन्हें अपने कपड़े तो दिख ही नहीं रहे थे। 

ये लिखते-लिखते अब मेरा मन दोबारा से इस फिल्म को देखने का कर रहा है। 

इस फिल्म की निदेशक निशा पाहुजा का खबर लहरिया द्वारा किया गया इंटरव्यू आप यहां पढ़ सकते हैं। 

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- लक्ष्मी शर्मा खबर लहरिया अखबार से 2010 से जुड़ी हुई है। 2014 में लक्ष्मी बिहार के शिवहर ज़िले से लखनऊ शिफ्ट हुई और तब से अखबार की ब्यूरो चीफ है। अपने बच्चों के बाद लक्ष्मी को सबसे ज़्यादा कम्प्यूटर भाता है। लक्ष्मी को शुरू से ही फिल्में देखने का शौक रहा है। इसके अलावा उसे कानून की पढ़ाई और टेक्नॉलजी में ख़ास रूचि है। 

Khabar Lahariya Blogs

Geeta, a Khabar Lahariya reporter, at work in Banda district

Khabar Lahariya's blog is now live! We are in the business of storytelling. For 13 years we have been telling stories from and about the remotest villages in Uttar Pradesh. We brought these stories online for the first time in 2013 when we launched our news website. Now we bring you more stories from those who work with us, those who came to know us and those who saw what goes on behind the scenes!

Stay tuned!