Seventy . . .

by Shobhaa De

  Thank you, media friends . . .

  It was just another weekday, and I almost didn’t take her call. Her number was saved in my phone book under ‘TV journo’. I had seen the number flash persistently. Five calls. I figured some story must have broken and the young girl was calling for a sound bite or two. When she called again, I answered and was ready to tell her I was unable to provide the bite, when she said, ‘There is a big morcha coming to your home. The political party has informed the press. We will all be there by 2.30 p.m. It is looking rough. They are sounding very angry and have told us they were going to “teach Shobhaa Dé a lesson she won’t forget”.’ I groaned inwardly and thought, ‘Not again!’ She asked worriedly, ‘Are you okay? These people can be very aggressive. Should I inform the police and organize a bandobast?’ I thanked her for the information and said, ‘Nice of you to warn me!’ She replied, ‘Please don’t thank me. It is because you have always been nice to me . . . and to all of us from news channels. Unlike others, you are always good to us, greet us, thank us, offer water or tea, treat us as professionals. You show us respect.’ That set me wondering. I had done very little to earn her affection. I looked back on our many meetings over the years, and nothing special jumped out at me. Of course, I greeted her and her colleagues from other channels. Come on, that’s basic courtesy, surely? These are hard-working people, caught in a highly competitive world, chasing absurd stories and meeting crazy deadlines. This one reporter always stood out from the pack. She was quick, clever, enterprising and on the ball. Our encounters were brief but mutually useful. I had extended no special favours to her and her small team. And yet, she was being so very kind and caring. It said a lot about her.

  Thanks to her timely warning, I was prepped when the mobs and throngs arrived. It was an ugly encounter. But it could have been a lot worse. Ditto on another occasion when another friendly journo called to inform me a nasty crowd armed with black paint was waiting for me at a bookshop where I was scheduled to launch a senior journalist’s book. I was stupid enough at the time not to pay attention to the tip-off . . . till the author himself called to tell me to turn around and head to an undisclosed destination. ‘This mob is baying for your blood . . . it could turn violent. If you turn up, they will break the glass doors of the bookshop and wreck parked cars. Please lie low for a few hours . . . avoid going home. They are determined to find you tonight.’ Both were close calls of the most unsavoury kind. I wasn’t scared to face the mob. But I didn’t want those crazy people to destroy the property of strangers who had nothing to do with the issue. For months after this incident, neighbours stared suspiciously at me—like I was the terrorist in their midst! Strange. Me? A woman who had faced sedition charges and survived (1991)? Hello! Sedition . . . treason . . . are you kidding me? But it happened. I know it in my memory as the notorious Simranjit Singh Mann case. He was the IPS officer on the run after the assassination of Indira Gandhi. And I was the idiot journo who had interviewed him before he went underground.

  Had the government of the time not fallen and had Chandra Shekhar not become India’s eighth—and most short-lived—prime minister (seven months), I might have delivered Anandita in a filthy jail in Bhagalpur, where the trial was about to begin (Chandra Shekhar dismissed all those silly cases when he took office). I discovered the authorities make no concessions for ‘traitors’ in advanced stages of pregnancy, as I was at the time. The magistrate in the Bombay court told me tersely, ‘You should have thought about your unborn baby before you indulged in all this.’ Ha ha ha! ‘All this’! I love it.

  Unfortunately, ever since then, I show up as a ‘fiery activist’ in police records and on global computer screens. Which means I have trouble at most international airports, and a few domestic ones too. I am the woman who is invariably picked out and told to step aside, searched, body-scanned and more. I have had overzealous immigration cops saying, ‘Keep your hands in the air while I go under your waistband.’ I have also had them say loudly, ‘I am going into your hair, do not reach for anything.’ And ‘Do you have anything sharp on you?’ Yes, I wanted to shout, my brain! My tongue! But I uttered a glum, ‘No,’ and went along. What are these women looking for? ‘Explosives,’ informed a Mumbai cop knowledgeably. Okie!

  Yet, this is the same woman who has been offered tickets on a silver platter to contest the Lok Sabha elections! Amusing when I look back at the irony of that! Me? Playing ball with a political party? Any political party? The first time it happened, I thought the mega industrialist making this offer was joking. I laughed it off, but he persisted. ‘All you have to say is “yes” . . . the rest will be taken care of,’ he said conspiratorially. I smiled broadly and drawled deliberately. ‘I am saying “noooooo”.’ ‘No? But why?’ he couldn’t believe his ears. ‘Because I don’t have the stomach for this dirty game,’ I answered frankly. The man was aghast! He wasn’t used to being turned down. By anyone! He kept quiet for a minute or two, and then said, ‘Let me talk to your husband. I am sure he will agree with me. He is a sensible man.’ I smiled, ‘Go ahead. Ask him.’ He walked across the room confidently and went into a huddle with Dilip. Remember, Dilip and I had not had the chance to discuss this at all. Guess what? It took Dilip all of two seconds to decline the Big Daddy’s magnanimous offer! To Big Daddy’s credit, he took the rejection on the chin. He shrugged, turned to me and grinned with a thumbs down sign. I have to say, he pleasantly surprised me. And we remain on good terms. ‘You are too much to handle,’ he tells me these days. That’s funny. Really? Too much to handle by whom? In what way? I don’t want to be ‘handled’! Happy to handle myself.

  Ditto for ‘offers’ to become the sheriff of Mumbai. Various ‘agents’ would come up with the proposal and say, ‘But you will have to come with us and meet the chief minister and convince him before we propose your name officially.’ Um. I think I’ll pass! I told the astonished emissary. She was stumped, ‘But . . . but . . . why not? Anybody would give an arm and a leg for this high-profile position!’ Well, I put a much higher value on my arm and leg, so thanks, but no thanks. What glory was she talking about? A sheriff’s role has zero attraction for me. It is an empty, meaningless post designed to boost the appointee’s vanity. It requires the appointed person to receive and see off visiting dignitaries at unearthly hours. And host tea parties at one’s own expense. Big deal. That too without a holster and a gun! Ridiculous.

  Goodwill has always played a huge role in diffusing potentially dangerous situations. I remind my children of these occasions only for them to realize the importance of behaving courteously at all times. Those young reporters are professionals doing a job. They must be treated with respect and consideration. That’s the least one can do. Meeting these enthusiastic kids, I am reminded of my own rookie days when it was often hard to get a toehold inside a crowded room full of senior journos. Being consistently polite to one and all should become an intrinsic part of one’s nature. Put-on politeness is easy to spot. Especially the smarmy, exaggerated, gushy variety. Politeness costs nothing. But it pays rich dividends when you need it the most. People are entities with feelings, they must never be treated as ‘invisibles’. It is a matter of training, I tell my children. Even if you cannot remember the person’s name, but he/she looks familiar, smile and exchange a greeting. I run into young catering college graduates who are now in top, managerial jobs at hotels across the world; some are working for posh cruise ships. It’s a lovely feeling when they come to the table to say, ‘We had met you eighteen/twenty years ago . . .’ The power of goodwill cannot be underestimated . . . I say this through experience and with gratitude.

  When the rowdies came to my door baying for my blood, I was alone at home. As I mentioned, a well-meaning reporter had tipped me off about the aggressive morcha. The police, of course, knew in advance and were there in full force. A lady with a beautiful voice called me and introduced herself as the local head of the SPG (Special Protection Group). She said she had sent some cops over on hearing about the propo
sed morcha and there was nothing to worry about.

  I was not worried, but curious. So is this how it works? Within minutes there were twenty cops inside our home. I looked out from the balcony and saw police vans blocking the entrance to our building. A few minutes later, ‘they’ turned up. I call them ‘they’ because they don’t deserve to be identified. These are hired goons who will protest against anything and anyone if they are paid enough. They had come with a generous ‘gift’ for me—two gigantic trays of vada pav (a local snack that I actually love!), threatening to stuff it down my throat in front of television cameras.

  By that time, there was a huge press contingent waiting for the tamasha to begin. The slogan-shouting started to get louder and louder as the goons performed for the cameras and hurled abuse at me. I watched it all like it was happening to someone else. I was not afraid in the least. Just baffled! So much fuss over an innocuous tweet! Surely, these political parties should have had something better to protest against. ‘Popcorn vs vada pav’ is hardly a national debate endangering Maharashtra’s security. Why the touchiness? Is the Maharashtrian identity only embedded inside the soft, delicious potato vada? Is it that fragile? I love being Maharashtrian. But mercifully, my version of being a Maharashtrian differs radically from the virulent, militant, ugly and aggressive form that was being thrust on me with a vada pav loyalty test.

  I had to make a split-second decision—to go down and face the music (vada pav) or stay upstairs in the safety of my well-fortified home, and wait for the hooligans to disperse. My real anxiety was not about personal safety. What if these miscreants pelted stones at my neighbours driving home from work, or damaged their cars? I decided to go down and go eyeball to eyeball with them. It was a good decision. This way, I also got the chance to interact directly with the media, instead of avoiding presswallas who were sending out incomplete details about the fracas. A few arrests had taken place and the protesters were stepping up their demands for an immediate, public and contrite apology from me for ‘hurting the sentiments of the Maharashtrian people’. The hell I was going to offer one.

  It should have ended there but it didn’t. What followed was a messy saga with a contempt notice slapped on me. I was asked to appear before the members of the Legislative Assembly in Mumbai and ‘explain’ my tweet. But there was an absurd catch—even if I did appear and ‘explain’ those 140 characters, the Speaker had the right not to accept my explanation. This attracted a jail term of ninety days. It was to be a modern-day version of a Draupadi trial conducted mainly by boorish leering men, out to strip me of my dignity and pride. I preferred to take them on and fight the contempt charges in the Supreme Court. I was not just fighting for my personal freedom but for the fundamental rights of all citizens of India—for the freedom of speech, which is enshrined in our Constitution.

  I could never ever have undertaken this arduous and extremely stressful exercise, had it not been for the phenomenal support I received from Mr Dé. He was magnificent! There is no other word for what he accomplished. Looking back, I find the amount of effort and time he invested in the case extraordinarily touching and awe-inspiring. I watched awestruck as he worked tirelessly to put the relevant papers together and send them on to our friend, the top senior legal counsel Aryama Sundaram, in Delhi. Not only is Aryama brilliant, he is also a loyal and true friend.

  When we called Aryama to ask whether he would represent me, he didn’t hesitate for a microsecond—‘Of course,’ he replied, adding, ‘let’s start the paperwork immediately. Send me everything you can find on the case.’ Suddenly, we both felt a tremendous boost of energy and confidence surging through us. I was crying and so was my husband. This was the right decision, the only decision. We had faith in the judiciary. We believed we had a strong case and we would win. It was a tense, touch-and-go Tuesday morning for us in Mumbai. The appeal was heard by a two-member bench headed by Justice Dipak Misra, the current chief justice of India. I was granted a permanent stay! It was a great moment for not just me, but for every citizen. I felt vindicated on several levels. No law had been broken by me at any stage. There had never been any intention on my part to insult or cause hurt to anybody. The question of disrupting the proceedings of the house did not arise.

  When the MLA who had slapped contempt charges against me in the assembly read the Supreme Court directive, he arrogantly issued a press statement asking, ‘But who is the Supreme Court?’ Buddy, you got your answer. Why not just shut up and accept it?

  On Aryama’s advice I had decided to stay put and not rush to Delhi. It was good advice. Fortunately, the case did come up as scheduled (it was number nine on the board), and we managed to get a stay. The ball was now in the Speaker’s court. The battle was short and savagely fought. But I am happy to report the story ended well. And I started relishing vada pav once more—the spicier the better. There is an added thrill to the vada pav snack break these days. But hey—popcorn is still sold at the movies.

  It was a nasty time, but not without an upside. My nerves were jangled beyond belief. I was dealing with a media onslaught that involved countless interviews—print, radio and television. There were times I couldn’t even grab a few minutes for a meal. Most of the policewomen assigned to my home were young and in touch with what was going on. They would urge me to drink water and bite into an apple between all those sound bites. I found that most endearing. Woman to woman, they understood my plight. I was not alone in this fight.

  I am happy to state I received unprecedented and enormous support from the press and citizens across the country. The state assembly’s resolve to suppress and silence an individual was seen for what it was—plain bullying. Even as uncouth legislators spewed abuse and used the most despicable language to put me down, it was a different story in the streets of Mumbai, and in streets across India, people would approach me spontaneously—women to give me a wordless hug, men to say ‘salute’. They empathized perfectly with what I was going through. They too were experiencing similar sinking feelings—of being ‘dabao-ed’, browbeaten by authorities. We were being treated like ants being trampled on by oppressors, drunk on their own power. The climate in India had altered dramatically and it was getting harder for citizens to speak up. They too knew it was likely to get tougher. They were as afraid for themselves as they were for me. ‘Please continue to speak your mind,’ they would urge. And that, more than anything else, was really what kept me going.

  Friends were a little more cautious, understandably so. Some phoned, adopting the same irritating clichés: ‘Hey Shobhaa, are you okay?’ I wanted to yell, ‘No, you twits. I am definitely not okay!’ But I would answer tiredly, ‘Yes, yes, yes, I am fine. Mr Dé is on top of it.’ He most certainly was! Hours and hours were spent by him to prepare the all-important ‘paper book’ (generally prepared by a solicitor’s firm), to pass on to Aryama Sundaram’s superb legal team. It was Mr Dé who tracked and clipped every press clipping, television reportage, previous judgments and researched the technical implications of the contempt charge. What he produced (a weighty volume) was monumental, comprehensive, invaluable and complete. A true labour of love that overwhelmed me completely. His commitment! His focus! His hard work! His pyaar! It’s a debt I can never repay. He will, no doubt, recoil at that word (debt). But I want to place my deepest gratitude on record.

  The few friends who stood by must be acknowledged too. Like the loyal couple, for example, my close and loving friends of thirty years. The husband was all set to lead a citizens’ march to Azad Maidan, protesting against the harassment. ‘We will all be there to march in solidarity,’ he said staunchly, adding, ‘not sure it will help you, given my beard and Muslim identity. You don’t need a daadhiwalla mulla leading the protest!’ That’s what it has come to.

  Some ‘friends’ stopped calling, since they knew my phones were tapped. Hardly any of them turned up at home—they didn’t want to be identified by the cops guarding my door. I failed to understand their cowardice. What were they afraid of? Getting
on to some goons’ hit list for being my ‘friends’? I don’t need such gutless people in my life. Two of my siblings occasionally made the mandatory calls to check on me. I guess they too didn’t want to get ‘involved’. Or am I being unfair? In any case, my life was never on a parallel track with theirs. It has always been far removed from the world they occupy. For them, perhaps I remain a brash, outspoken younger sister bringing trouble upon herself. Even though Mandakini repeatedly assures me these days that she has always been proud of me, Ashok used to say the same. But never to my face! I’d hear it from others. Maybe I am wrong. It’s possible they were most concerned and didn’t know how to express it. In any case, I don’t hold grudges.

  And then there was Sunita, a warm, generous and wonderful friend of forty years. Sunita, this time you are in my book ‘officially’. From the day we met, we knew we would be friends forever. Sunita used to joke each time a new novel of mine was published—‘I am a character in all her books and stories. Try to guess which one?’ And it’s true. Well, now is the right time for Sunita to play herself. At one point when the heat was getting to me, and I was physically and emotionally drained, I called her spontaneously to ask, ‘Where are you?’ Sunita lives between four cities. ‘I am in Delhi. Come! Don’t think. Just get on to the next plane and come here. I leave for Ranikhet in a day or so. Let’s go together. Get on that flight.’

  I did exactly that. Nobody was to know my plan or location except my immediate family. That was the advice I was given by Aryama Sundaram, after assessing the situation. It was pretty hairy and tense, with new and filthy abuses being hurled at me on a daily basis. ‘We want to teach this woman a lesson once and for all,’ thundered an MLA with a criminal record and a couple of murder charges to his name. I followed Sunita’s advice. I didn’t think. I flew to Delhi. Once I landed, Sunita took over my life seamlessly, just as she had thirty-five years ago, when I had faced another major personal crisis. She asked for no details, no explanations. Quietly and efficiently, she took me grocery shopping to a sprawling food store, and we stocked up for our trip to Ranikhet. I had no idea how long I would stay there, and she didn’t ask.