The journey of a reluctant protestor

Illustration/ Uday Mohite

I returned home on a November night in 2008 to find my then-partner watching the news. Since the TV in our home was usually reserved for sports or films, this was worrying. What was on the screen confirmed my fears. It seemed like some kind of gang war had broken out in Colaba, the South Mumbai locality that had always seemed immune to disaster. Within a few hours, the fears solidified and multiplied. The Taj Mahal hotel at the Gateway of India had been infiltrated by armed terrorists who were holding guests and staff hostage. Terror was simultaneously unfolding at other locations like CST railway station and the iconic Leopold restaurant. And this gruesome list kept growing through the night and the next day.

In the days after the siege had ended, I, like so many residents of the city, felt an eerie silence descend around me, marking the transition from unquestioned safety to shaky vulnerability. The wounds of '92 and '93 had been reopened. Terrorists had occupied our homes, our brains, our lives. I was, at the time, a 26-year-old cynic given to bouts of depression but otherwise in command of a fairly regular life. "How does it matter what I do or say?" was the refrain in my head in reply to all the important questions about personal responsibility towards the larger community. In the conversation between my inner sceptic and believer, the former had won so many times that the dialogue itself had been silenced. But when there was a call for citizens to show up at the Gateway to participate in a candlelight vigil, I set out with a bunch of friends, propelled by some instinct that was older and stronger than cynicism.

As it happened, the crowds around the Taj had swelled to such proportions that our little group of friends had to abandon any hope of joining the gathering. Instead we did what we do best: drink ourselves silly. We found a pub in one of the lanes behind the Taj, lifting each other's spirits with dark humour surrounding the still-fresh attacks.

It was 2012. A young woman had been raped on a Delhi bus. People were gathering at Shivaji Park, one of Mumbai's large public spaces with a history of protest. I arrived there with a friend and met quite a few acquaintances. Some bought coffee at the café outside before joining in. Others carried banners. Almost everyone wore a look of indignation. Often there were spontaneous smiles and hugs of recognition, but we were chastised by an author-activist who demanded we be solemn. And so we held hands and stood together, hundreds of miles away from the site of the crime, not quite knowing how else to express our outrage. And then the crowd scattered and we were left to process our individual emotions about the deeply painful incident. Did the protest change anything?

In February 2016, the Naz Foundation filed a curative petition against Section 377 of the IPC, that criminalised homosexuality. I joined a collective of queer friends, carrying banners in rainbow colours asking for the unjust law to be struck down. We gathered together in an apartment in Santacruz, scrawling messages on chart paper, then headed for Chowpatty. I remember an argument breaking out between two friends over the clothes that one was wearing. "But I thought you would wear a colourful T-shirt, too!" said one of them aggrieved. Over at the beach, close to a hundred activists and allies had gathered in a (relatively) silent protest. We held banners. Sat together in solidarity. A few sang songs of equality. And then the group disbanded. A few friends and I ended up at Godwin Hotel's bar off Colaba Causeway. There I ran into a lawyer friend - woke and outspoken. When she heard where we had been, she said, "Not going to happen. The curative petition won't come through." I wondered then at her insider's confidence in the status quo remaining unchanged. Maybe she's right, I thought. But how can it hurt? I corrected myself. Was the cynic giving way to the believer?

The Kathua rape case in 2018 brought people out into the streets again. I joined a protest at the Carter Road promenade - a venue that a few other protestors found to be too elitist. I went anyway. It was close to where I lived and the belief that every bit counts was growing within me. The foolish heart was now involved. At the protest, I heard a teacher from my former school crying out in rage: "Castrate the rapists!" Some people I went to college with held similar signs. I cringed at the calls. Was bloodlust the answer to bloodshed? I found that enough people shared my horror of retributive violence. From arguments over the annual Pride party to the politics of a protest, us liberals held opposing viewpoints on all matters, I was beginning to learn firsthand.

I found myself on the Carter Road promenade again later that year, on September 6. This time, to celebrate the reading down of Section 377. It was like the nation had reclaimed all her colours. I'd only ever seen such a spontaneous public celebration when India had won the cricket World Cup in 2011. The flags were out, strangers were hugging, sweets were being distributed in the streets. The curative petition that we had come out in the streets to support, and so many brave queer citizens had backed with personal stories in court, had come through.

As climate change grabbed international headlines in 2019, Mumbai had its own horror story to share. Trees were being hacked in Aarey Colony, the city's green lung, to make way for the Metro. This time, the protest was held at Bandra Reclamation. The crowd consisted of school children, young members of NGOs and a few local residents. The need for car-pooling, recycling and other eco-friendly initiatives was emphasised before the speaker called out to the assembled students: "We will contribute to climate change!" I stopped myself from bursting into wicked laughter at the unfortunate phrasing and joined the "die-in" - people lying inert on the ground as a warning against the deadly effects of environmental damage. No, this was not doing it for me. Our protests needed more bite.

In November 2019, Section 370 was revoked in Kashmir. Then came the Ayodhya judgment, awarding the disputed land in favour of the Ram Lalla deity. The government was making good on all its election promises. I read and shared news pieces that condemned the anti-secular nature of the decisions. I argued with friends about the nuances of each. I kept myself up with worry. But there were no protests in the streets. It seemed like the endgame had begun, with me and my tribe left with no alternative but to hush our voices, lower our heads and defer to the savage powers that be.

Then came the Jamia and AMU attacks. And finally, the JNU violence by masked goons. I was in Goa when the December 19 protests unfolded at August Kranti Maidan, bringing together about two lakh dissenters on to the streets. I joined a protest in Panaji, and was surprised by the turnout at the anti CAA/NRC rally. But looking at the pictures from my city, I felt a pull towards it such as I have never experienced before. My social media was flooded with art, poetry and revolution. Witty banners. Determined faces. Spontaneous friendships. Resumed alliances. And a new energy. Everyone felt one with the young and the hopeful. There was no space for cynicism. I mourned the years I had lost to pessimism. Hum dekhenge was no longer just a beautiful nazm I had heard endlessly on YouTube. It was a call to arms against the divisive forces that had marred my country.

On December 27, an anti-CAA and -NRC protest was shifted from Byculla to Azad Maidan by the police. When I made my way into the ground that pleasant afternoon, walking past students busy with cricket to reach students busy with protest, something within me lit up. The uneasiness of the last five years under an oppressive and loutish government was being calmed by screaming voices. Hipsters and hajis stood shoulder to shoulder. Poets Varun Grover and Hussain Haidry filled the air with hopeful verse. At one point, there was an invasion of a group that was participating in a pro-CAA rally close by. What could have been a moment of panic was somehow allayed by the images of Gandhi and Ambedkar being held aloft by protestors. As also the comforting fact that Mumbai Police does not take its orders from the masters.

The #OccupyGateway moment was a response to the violence at the JNU campus on the night of January 5, 2019. The 2008 candlelight vigil that I had missed was a time of mourning; this was a time to celebrate. All around me were voices and colours of democracy, blending for over 24 hours before being dissolved by the police. Little and big groups were formed around music and poetry. Biscuits, chana and water were distributed freely, along with the occasional flower. Believers offered namaaz against the backdrop of the Gateway. Flags fluttered against the exquisite façade of the Taj, still standing tall and proud. The sight brought tears to my eyes. Change was in the air. Anything was possible.

That same evening, a few film personalities joined a crowd of protestors at the Carter Road promenade. Swanand Kirkire sang Baawra mann, the beautiful statement of hope from Hazaaron Khwaishein Aisi. When Deepika Padukone stood beside the injured student leader Aishe Ghosh, and Kanhaiya Kumar, at JNU a couple of days later, it reiterated the maxim: Anything is possible.

I have since attended another protest at Carter Road - rousing and uniting. And on Makar Sankranti I arrived at Juhu Beach, where protestors intended to fly kites with anti-CAA and -NRC messages pasted on them. The police refused them permission, and a passerby walked up to say how the government was right in destroying bacteria like us (the protestors) with acid. We gathered instead at a building terrace, flying kites, sharing laughter and tilgul, the sesame sweet synonymous with harvest in Maharashtra.

A few days ago, I joined a protest at a Bandra park where a young man identified himself as a Gujarati Brahmin who had canvassed for BJP in 2014; he began his speech after apologising for his grave folly.

As I write this, the vulnerable yet brave women at Shaheen Bagh have been protesting for over a month. Over a week ago, several Sikh farmers from Punjab arrived to support them with an indefinite langar. More supporters are streaming in. It's cold in the capital but the warmth is palpable.

As someone who has benefitted immensely from the love of dear ones and the kindness of strangers, I know that this ridiculous, confusing, messed-up world turns on hope. The times we find ourselves in demand a special kind of goodness. A goodness that expresses itself boldly, despite the dangers and threats. It requires us to stand up for the marginalised. It asks us to speak. To act. To make choices. And to shake off our cynicism.

For those of us who don't have prayer, there is poetry. The personal and the political come together seamlessly in this realm, as we are currently experiencing. What is happening in India's streets today is poetry in action. Take it from someone who started out as a reluctant protestor: there is no act more deeply human and empowering than standing together as one against injustice. And yes, anything is possible.

This piece was written by a queer Muslim-born woman writer who wishes to remain anonymous, and finds the ongoing citizenship protests to have had a uniquely empowering effect on the marginalised

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