In the land of Gandhi

I was on my way to the land of Gandhi. The train was full of his countrymen or may be I should say women. The sounds of choo and che, filled the air with the gujju flavour: literally. Since the train moved until the time I got down, I was surrounded by the crunching sounds of khakras and murmura. The chaiwallahs too had a busy time. I was offered tea, but the plastic cup sort of deterred my intent to accept. They were very hospitable people, but looking at them closely, with their orange and red dots on their foreheads, I wondered, could these women have been among those who supported the rape and murder of other women from their home state, only because they were born in the "other" community? The ones sitting across me were old folks, there was a larger group of large women – most of them wearing kurtas, could be a generation younger than these red dot women, symbolizing the progressive gujju lady. I once met a lady from Gujarat way back in 2001 I think, in a bus somewhere in Maharashtra, who boasted of the empowered gujarati woman. She herself was running two businesses. Quite a few gujju ladies have made their mark in the world of large corporations too. But how can one forget the fact, that it was the well-heeled that looted and aided in the murder of the innocents during the gujerat progrom? I wanted to ask those sitting across me, what they thought of what happened in 2002, but could not bring myself to ask the question. Would they say, the other side deserved it for its past mistakes? How does one weigh someone’s guilt? And say, since you did this, this and this, you deserve this, this and that? Does any kind of guilt by a particular community deserve the innocents of the same community to be butchered, and raped and burnt in the most inhuman fashion by others? I don’t know, I cannot digest these things ever. There was a north eastern man sitting across by the side window. For some reason the police searched his bag soon after he got in the train. During the night I found the light being kept on, and one of the gujju ladies was sleeping on the floor by the side of her luggage, instead of the berth. I told her to switch off the lights, she said, “he (the NE man) was taken by the police for some time. God knows, what he is like. So we kept the lights on”. For a minute I was almost siding with her, and then I remembered the ways of the police in these days. Arresting and killing innocents as it suited them. I told her, don’t worry, it would be fine and switched off the lights. But once again my thoughts went back to 2002, when women like these must have been silent while other women were being killed as the police looked on. Does it ever occur to them? I don’t know. I was coming to Gujarat almost after 8 years. I was there just two months before the Gujarat carnage happened. I could sense the under currents back then, but didn’t realize it would result in the mayhem of March 2002. I was in Kutch, making short films. One day I went to Khawda, close to the Pakistani border, and was back in Bhuj by evening. There were curious questions from the locals, “how is it over there? Are the people good?” questions like these abounded. I was a bit taken aback since Khawda was at most a couple of hundred kilometers if not less. And people in Bhuj, felt as if I had visited an alien land. Strange it seemed at first. But I should have guessed. Post quake reconstruction; funds were used to expand the gap between the two communities. A village like Damadka, which was a mixed community village now split into two, the block printers of Damadka, mainly Muslims, were leaving the village to make their own village - Azrakpur. Their neighbours were saddened to see them go – since both communities work was interlinked. On my repeated questioning, no one gave me a straight forward answer as to why the block printers were leaving the village. A few weeks earlier to that, when I was researching for the films, I had to wait at the tea shop in Khawda, for my bus. While chatting with the local man, a big burly pathan, I talked about my work and said, I came to cover the work of an NGO that was helping the rural women market their handicrafts. “They are only helping their people, they don’t help us”. At that point, I thought he meant that the NGO was helping only those in their women’s groups. “Your women should join the groups I think”, I told him. “Nah. Even if our women go, they are not welcome”, was his reply. I wasn’t sure if he was being angry about people or if indeed there was a genuine grievance.

For our shoot, I hired a vehicle to take the crew around. Our driver, (I think his name was Yusuf), told me that I reminded him of singer Phalguni Pathak. His boss was also with us on the first day. It was the time of Ramzaan, I asked the boss (forget his name), “Aren’t you going to give us shir khorma?” “Of course”, he replied. On the day when we were leaving he brought a huge carrier of food. His sister was with him. As she walked in, I could see the sense of shock on her face. And then she burst out laughing. I didn’t understand. “They told me that their client was Falguni Pathak and I was expecting to see her. I am a huge, huge fan of hers!” she continued. We chatted for a while and they left. During my stay there one day, Yousuf was late and we got delayed for our shoot. I lost my cool. Later, while it was time for us to go, I apologized to him, “that’s’ okay madam, it was my fault.” Other than that, the four days shooting trip was a most enjoyable and memorable one for me, with Yusuf filling us with stories about Kutch on our long drives through the beautiful arid land.

Two months later, while news flashed on TV about Godhra and the riots that followed, and my friends in Mumbai were saying that it was about time to teach a lesson to “them”, and that it was “well-deserved” I wondered what happened to my friend Yusuf, his boss and his sister. I wonder if they are still alive and if so, are they able to survive? I don’t know and can’t find out, since, it’s been a long time, and I don’t have their address either to find out.

Like those many years ago, as I landed in Surat, today too, things just seemed to be “normal”. “In Surat, its okay, but in Ahmedabad and Kutch the situation (of hate) is the same if not worse”, Suren my friend said on my enquiry. He had adopted two boys who lost their parents during the rioting in 2002. The boys seem normal, but, no amount of healing could make them accept Suren and Uma as their first family. They were old enough (6 and 9) at that time not to forget the past. I wonder what the kids must have gone through, seeing what they did at that age. However, when I saw one of them, active and smiling, living and learning work at Suren’s Sampoorna Kranti (school of total revolution), it gave a bit of hope. Only, time can tell.