Sit in Protest

I have never woken up a single day of
my life thinking that today I am going to protest. Actually, there haven’t been
many things in life that I have felt like protesting about. The same holds true
for Jigneshbhai. He likes a quiet life and doesn’t have much to complain about.
So, that makes him ineligible for joining protests. But it’s not the same with
Swami. He has a lot to complain about. But even for him protests are a far-off
thing. At best I can imagine Swami protesting against the hardness of the idlis
in his office canteen. But nothing more than that.

So, even for him, joining a protest
against the bad quality of roads was something. No doubt that he is a regular
user of roads for his commutes and complains about them all the time. But
complaining and protesting are two different things. For Jigneshbhai, even bad
roads aren’t much of an issue. He walks about 500 metres twice everyday out of
his house. Sometimes four times, if he comes home for lunch. So, imagining how
Purno slept so many nights of his life thinking that tomorrow when I wake up I
am going to protest, is astounding. It’s tough to sustain such a protest-filled
mindset and put it into practice for years together.

Given this state of mind about
protests, we had a small argument on whether we should go for this protest. And
that too only because some long-lost friend of Swami, who he did not even recognise
at first, called us for it. But then you know how it is when it comes to Swami.

“We should go. Roads are
important. No one in power will act till they have to. And we have to make them
act,” Swami said in a newfound protestor avatar. That didn’t turn either
Jigneshbhai’s head or mine.

So, he resorted to a softer argument in
favour of going. “See, think about it. My friend Purno is organising it.
We have to support him,” he said. That got him some faint attention from Jigneshbhai
and me. It seemed like a somewhat plausible reason but still not enough.

What sealed it at the end was a more
practical reason. “Look guys, we don’t have much else to do on Sunday.
Might as well see what protests are like. It will be something new. On the way
back we can stop at the café,” he said. That was it. It got nods from both
Jigneshbhai and me.

We assembled at Swami’s house on Sunday
morning. “I guess there won’t be any parking, right?” He asked and
answered it himself. “That is a frivolous question. We will walk.”

Then he had another doubt. “Is
coffee allowed at a protest?”

Jigneshbhai and I had no idea. It was
our first time attending a protest too.

“Let us go there and find
out,” Swami answered it himself again.

On the way, Swami had another doubt.
“I hope we are well dressed for a protest,” he remarked. Jigneshbhai
and I had not taken any special efforts for that. But Swami had worn a kurta
on his jeans. So, Jigneshbhai said, “You are. You look like an upcoming
youth leader.”

When we reached the protest site, it
was quite confusing. It looked like there were three protests going on there.
There was a big crowd and it wasn’t clear which protest was protesting against
what. Swami searched for Purno, but he was nowhere to be seen.

I asked one person who looked like an
activist whether his protest was against bad quality of roads. He said, “I
am against government apathy towards infrastructure.” The protester next
to him said, “No, that is over there. This one is for government
indifference towards construction labourers.”

The infrastructure apathy one was ours,
I thought. But Purno had said it was about the bad quality of roads. So,
Jigneshbhai and I shouted, “Swami, which one are we joining?”

Swami looked embarrassed and signalled
to us to shut up with a finger to his lips. “Keep your voices down,”
he said. “This is not a shopping mall. Let me find out,” he came
closer and whispered.

Swami went further ahead looking for
Purno. “Keep looking out for Purno,” he told us as he walked.

In a few minutes, he came back but Purno
was still nowhere in sight. But he had decided which protest to sit in.
“That infrastructure apathy one seems to be the one,” he said. He
pointed to the protest on the opposite side of the traffic signal.

“That side also has some shade,
they have built a shamiana,” he winked with a smile. We realised
how he’d reached his decision. But it was a good enough reason. “Good
idea, the afternoon will get hot here,” Jigneshbhai agreed looking at me.
For once, we agreed with Swami without any need for coaxing, crossed over and
settled down.

Once we sat down, we had even less
visibility over what else was going on. Someone came and gave us a placard
after a few minutes.

“Good roads reduce load” it
said. Jigneshbhai and Swami smiled. “We are in the right place, now let’s
find Purno,” Swami said.

But the placard given to the man next
to us said, “Good power should be ours.” Well, whatever, I thought.
“Purno might be busy organising stuff. Let’s find him after a while,”
Jigneshbhai said. Swami agreed. So, we stayed put.

If you imagine protests as dynamic
places where lots of things happen, then you are mistaken. It is not that I
have a lot of experience in protests. But from what I saw in this one, I am
certain that nothing much happens most of the time at a protest.

First the protestors settle down in
their seats. Then the initial few minutes sees what is beginner’s enthusiasm.
Everyone shouts slogans with energy. But how long can you keep doing that with
no one watching? Then things go silent. That’s what happened to our protest
too. By ours, I mean Purno’s protest that we sat in.

We sat in protest waiting for something
to happen. But nothing did. “How has Purno spent his life doing
this?” Swami asked. “What a boring life!” He passed his
judgement in a hurry like usual.

A few days back the social angle to his
long-lost friend’s noble vocation excited Swami. He thought his friend could
make a difference. Now, a few days later, within an hour of protesting, it
became boring. But that was Swami’s mind, as Deja says. Things got interesting
soon enough though.

A few policemen walked past us as we
sat in silence. Swami smiled at them. But they didn’t smile back. I guess these
were not like his regular traffic policeman who waved at Swami with a smile every
day. These policemen weren’t supposed to smile at protestors.

An hour after noon, a press
photographer came, and everyone started yelling at the top of their voices.
When the camera is on you, you shout louder. That was the ABC of protesting. No
point in protesting if it isn’t captured and reported. Jigneshbhai and I also
raised our hands when everyone raised them to feel part of the protest. Swami
was at his vociferous best.

But Swami regretted that later. “I
hope we don’t appear in the papers tomorrow,” he said on second thought
when the photographer went away.

Soon after that, a boy came with some
water and we picked a glass each. It was a hot afternoon. Swami opened up his
lunch box and asked, “Sandwiches?” Our friend’s preparedness pleased
Jigneshbhai and me. But when we picked up the sandwich, the person behind us
tapped me on the shoulder. I turned back and thought he wanted one too. So, I
offered him one. But he said, “This is a hunger strike, you can’t have
food here.”

That was something we didn’t know and
hadn’t prepared for. Purno hadn’t said it was a hunger strike. Jigneshbhai and
I kept the sandwich back grudgingly. We gave Swami an annoyed look for choosing
the wrong protest. Jigneshbhai asked me in a murmur whether they would allow
coffee. I thought of asking Swami or the activist behind me but thought it may
not be wise. A hunger strike probably includes a thirst strike.

“But Purno said it’s a sit-in
protest, not a hunger strike,” Swami protested. But Purno was still seen
nowhere.

Some large voices and a noise broke the
afternoon silence that had settled over the protest soon. Those also broke
Jigneshbhai’s siesta. “Clang,” some glass broke. This happened at
some distance away from us. “Thud,” we heard a few chairs falling. It
came from around the same place. It was on the opposite side of the signal. It
was from the place where we had started our day. It was clear that things were
heating up.

Swami stood up. “Let me see what’s
happening,” he said. “Somebody is throwing bottles,” he
reported. Everyone in our row stood up. Jigneshbhai and I finally did the same.
“Oh no, that’s a big bottle,” Swami exclaimed on seeing a man
throwing it. Jigneshbhai had a closer look at what was happening at a distance.
“This doesn’t look good. They are throwing bottles at the police,” he
said. “Yes, that’s what it looks like. And the policemen are now asking
them to stop it,” Swami reported.

“Who is that guy with a mic in his
hand?” Swami asked. Jigneshbhai and I had no idea. It looked like the man
was making a speech on the mic. We reckoned he was a local leader. We could
hear some of his words. “The party in power has no sympathy for the plight
of construction workers,” he said. “They don’t have food to eat
because the party doesn’t spend on infrastructure projects. How long will we
let our families starve and our children go to bed on an empty stomach?”

Someone threw another bottle. This time
it hit a policeman on his head. The press photographers were now ready to shoot
whatever happened. There must be a threshold for the police to act, I wondered.
The police reached that threshold soon.

“Let’s go,” Jigneshbhai said.
It was a firm decision taken by a man with a cool head after considering the
situation that was unfolding before them. Swami and I nodded our heads in
agreement. He started walking towards the other side. We had to cross that area
where the bottle throwing was happening. There was no other way. Jigneshbhai
started walking and we followed suit. By the time we reached there, another
bottle had hit another policeman. The police started a lathi charge.

“Don’t look there,”
Jigneshbhai said. “Let’s sneak out from the left side,” he said.
Swami and I followed him.

It was at that time that a man in a
khadi kurta caught hold of Swami’s arm. He pulled him aside and said,
“In an hour, come to the local police station.”

Swami shoved him aside, but the man
held on. Swami then saw his thick glasses and beard. “Where were you,
Purno? We searched for you everywhere,” Swami started. This was not the
time for elaborate deliberations.

But Swami continued. “What are you
doing here? We were sitting in your protest on the other side.”

“Last minute change of plan. It
happens,” Purno explained. Jigneshbhai and I waited and listened in.

“Oh okay, but why police
station?” Swami asked. 

“Will tell you. Things got out of
hand. Normal in protests,” Purno clarified.

A policeman charged towards Purno and
hit him with a lathi. “Throwing bottles? Come here.”

“One minute, Sir, I am
coming,” Purno said. He wasn’t perturbed but Swami’s face went pale.
“Purno, he is arresting you.”

“It’s alright. Don’t worry. Come there in an hour, please. Now you go,” he said. And he went with the policeman. As he left, he shouted back to Swami, “Get three thousand rupees in cash, please. I need your help. You have to do that much for your poor old friend.”

Excerpted from the book “Give Me a Break” by Ranjit Kulkarni. Available on Amazon in Kindle and Paperback. Follow Ranjit Kulkarni on his Amazon Author Page to hear about his latest books and get updates from his blog.