March

My first attempt at marching for a cause ended in ignominious defeat and disaster. It was the Eighties, AIDS was a looming epidemic and in the throes of teenage passion, I completely ignored the fact that I had zero stamina, not much lung capacity and was nothing more than a wuss. I signed up for a 10 kilometre night run to raise funds for the fledgling AIDS research in India. Anyway, to cut a painful story short, I didn’t complete the run. In fact, I had to be bundled up in an ambulance along with my tattered pride while the teenage object of my lust cackled like a hyena to see me thus. I didn’t last the course. Side note: Neither did Hyena. Since then, I have been far more temperate in espousing causes that need my presence in a march, walk or run. I barely managed a 5 km Dream Run a few years ago (so christened for dreamers like me, who think they can, barely do and dream of it for years to come – the stumbling, the panting, legs on fire, can’t breathe, the whole nightmarish scenario). Hence, I am resigned to my status an an armchair protestor. But the latest outrage unleashed by the local authorities got me out of bed this morning and participating in a silent protest march on Marine Drive. Three thousand trees are about to be cut down in Aarey Colony to make way for Metro parking sheds. Many more may be threatened if this proposal goes through. Aarey Colony is a mini forest in Mumbai city. It is contiguous with the Borivali National Park. The general consensus amongst environmentalists, concerned citizens and activists is that a major land grab is under way, and the Metro is being used as a scapegoat. Most people understand that the Metro will possibly do more good than harm, but for Mumbaikars starved of greenery and oxygen, the Aarey Colony is our last symbol of the fight to retain our meagre green spaces in the face of a powerful real estate industry – government nexus. The Metro sheds could be relocated. Forest land is not the only option available for their location. The government’s claim that twice the number of trees will be planted elsewhere is full of holes: we need old growth trees, not weak saplings that may or may not survive. Once the plantation drive has been covered by the media (complete with shiny neta in starched kurta pajama, hoe in hand, smile on face), the saplings are often ignored and neglected. Most of them die. While the controversy rages in the courts and corporation hall, people have been out on the streets, protesting this arbitrary decision. This morning, around one thousand people turned out at Marine Drive. This would have been amazing in terms of numbers, except that many of the young activists there had travelled in from the suburbs. Wake up, young townies!! Anyway, we were a motley crew out there, lining the pavement with our home made banners and posters. It was a silent protest because any vocalising would apparently make the local constabulary very upset. We heard stories of activists thrown in jail while the trees they were trying to protect were cut down in the space of a few hours. We were therefore rather a silent bunch. Many middle aged earnest people like me, not knowing quite what to do but certain that we had to do something. Many young people. They had come from far away, and I for one was grateful to have their stalwart support and company. When I met a group early in the morning, we were milling around like early arrivals do at events like these, not quite sure if we were soon to be compatriots. I got chatting with a couple of them and they cheerfully included me in their group. (Later, when I met them again, they said they’d been looking out for me, the cool aunty. Major ego boost. You can keep your teenage fashionistas and football fans, I’m happy to be called cool by young environmental activists. And as for the aunty bit, well, you can’t go grey and ever so slightly plump and completely avoid being labelled. A group of young orthodox Sikhs, in blue turbans and kirpans at their waist, marching beside a group of well built bikers, in leather jackets, carrying little home made placards. Some young men in skull caps, their placards exhorting people to remember the sacrifice of Mohurram and to prevent the sacrifice of the environment. Nice touch, that. Some Bohemians in ganjis and tattoos and pleated batik trousers. Dreadlocked too.Earnest young people, cameras at the ready, documenting the march. Our group, greying, enthusiastic, some in fashionable protest attire, some in borrowed tracks from teenager son. The cops arrived pretty soon. First, one motorbike cruised by, then a jeep arrived. A whistle was blown half heartedly, chala chala (move along) lazily intoned. A jeep carrying a smart young inspector then appeared, followed by a police van. We heard stories of how cops push activist lines back. They use their bellies and torsos. This way, they can always claim any injury was by accident, not design. I wondered if I would have the physical strength or moral courage to push back at a female constable who was blocking me with her belly. The thin little female cadets who patrol Marine Drive, perhaps. The muscular ones from this morning, escorting the inspector? Probably not. Apparently, a gathering of more than five persons in a public space needs police permission. If this is accurate, and I hope I have misinterpreted the facts in this case, then we are already living in a police state. I don’t think we had any such permission this morning. Anyway, the cops did a little dadagiri, the organisers did the innocent, humble act (we were just walking, taking the morning air. The placards? Oh just something we whipped up this morning..of course we’ll not raise slogans. Inquilaab? What’s that? Etc.) and we all went on our way, quite happy with the charades. You may see our grinning faces in tomorrow’s papers. The media people were there in numbers, interviewing protestors (not our group, we were unseemly in our uproarious enjoyment of a little rebellion), clicking photographs. The only unsettling presence was that of an Innova filled with large, tough looking men. The sign on the windshield said Press but they sure didn’t convince any of us. They cruised alongside us, their body language unfriendly and intimidating in a way even the police hadn’t projected. At one point, one of them did jump out with a video camera. He shot a few minutes’ footage, then lost interest. I wonder who they were.This was my saturday morning. I don’t claim to know what effects these protests may have, except to remind the people of our city that we are still a democracy. We may have elected a populist government, but they are not our rulers. They govern in our name. For the people, by the people, of the people. When did we begin to forget that? The right to protest. Today, it is the environment. Tomorrow, it may be our fundamental rights. Then, the very interpretation of our Constitution. We live still in an innocent city. We can come out, laughing and earnest, protesting the cutting down of our trees. Let us never, for a moment, take that freedom and right for granted. Elsewhere in our country, pellet guns and tear gas wait for protestors and children alike.