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 Teresa Rehman: A Chronicler of Less Known Stories

In Conversation with Teresa Rehman about Bulletproof : A Journalist’s Notebook on Reporting Conflict (Penguin Random House) and a bit about the book…

Bulletproof: A Journalist’s Notebook on Reporting Conflict by Teresa Rehman is not a new book but it’s a unique one. It is an evergreen narrative of a woman’s journey to empower herself given a wholistic family set up. Set in the northeast of India, it’s a chronicle of people who were willing to die for their beliefs. Many were young men, university students and yet they picked up guns. They just seemed to be on the wrong side of events. It makes you wonder what made them into who they were?

Rehman covers stories of women and children impacted by the conflict, the border politics with neighbouring countries, the lack of sanitation in these regions and the lack of safety and security. And perhaps, given the times, we need to read her story to figure out how history treats those that do not comply with governance for her book largely covers the ULFA (United Liberation Front of Asom) separatist movement that started in 1979. It had been dubbed an insurgent organisation in the 1990s, and then the ULFA softened its stance in the 2000s. In a way their suffering humanises militants as people who just happen to be on the wrong side of governance. She also covers stories of poachers and environmental issues. The pathos of their condition and stories are heart wrenching. What does come across is that the northeast was and continues a neglected region that cries out for funds and development, while retaining the colours of its own culture and values.

Bulletproof continues relevant raising not just issues in the northeast regions of India but also asks you to rethink many concepts … including media reporting, what can lead to PTSD and what is acceptable. It reverberates with questions that were raised later by Afsar Mohammed’s Remaking History:1948 Police Action and the Muslims of Hyderabad. Can one person’s dream be another’s nightmare? It has ideas that echo concerns thrown up in Freedom at Midnight by Larry Collins and Dominique Lapierre. Did all of the people living within the borders drawn by the colonials want to integrate under a single government? Was that their dream? Is the idea of a single polity inclusive and tolerant of diversities and differences? And much more… So, who is this Teresa Rehman who wrote this evergreen classic?

Teresa Rehman is an award-winning journalist based in North-east India, known for her quiet grit and matter-of-fact approach to stories. She has worked for years toward bringing the different facets of the region, its diversity and distinct ethos to mainstream media. Teresa’s work in journalism spans through India Today, Telegraph and Tehelka before she decided to put in all her resources into launching The Thumb Print e-magazine that she edits currently. She has managed to bring in the gender perspective to her stories. A recipient of the WASH Media Awards 2009-2010, Teresa also won the Ramnath Goenka Excellence in Journalism Award for two consecutive years – 2008-2009 and 2009-2010 for the category: Reporting on J&K and the North-east. Her keen eye for the gender angle showed through stories. And she bagged honours such as Laadli Media Award for Gender Sensitivity 2011, Sanskriti Award 2009 for Excellence in Journalism and the Seventh Sarojini Naidu Prize 2007 for Best Reporting on Panchayati Raj by Hunger Project. She is known for her unassuming persistence on getting the details, and sensitivity. She was featured in the Power List of Femina magazine in 2012. She has written a clutch of books, The Mothers of Manipur (Zubaan Books) and Bulletproof (Penguin Random House India) are among them. She is the Treasurer of the Editors Guild of India.

These are Rehman’s achievements, but who is she really? What made her turn to reporting insurgency, an unusual choice for a woman journalist in the 1990 and early 2000s? Rehman has stepped beyond the pages of the book to share a bit about herself in this exclusive online interview.

Why did you opt to become a journalist? Tell us a bit about Teresa, the young girl. 

I often tell people that I did not choose journalism but journalism chose me. With infectious enthusiasm, my mother carefully collected an array of books, magazines, coins, stamps – neatly packed and stored in old tin boxes of chocolates and cookies. As a child, my aunt recalls that I was quiet, courteous and a well-behaved girl. I used to immerse myself in my mother’s erratic accumulation of books, journals and magazines. I used to sit in a corner and browse through them though I couldn’t wrap my head around most of it. It was the pre-internet era in the 1980s and my parents encouraged us to read and write. I am a first-generation journalist and that makes me the only black sheep of the family. I did not have too many friends and was rather awkward in social gatherings. I would rather sit in a quiet corner and simply browse through old issues of the Illustrated Weekly of India, Reader’s Digest, Femina, Women’s Era, Savvy, Target (a magazine for young adults), Wisdom etc. My mother used to subscribe to these magazines. This curiosity and the childhood fantasy of imagining myself in those bylines gradually made me write for the children’s pages in the local newspapers. I remember writing in longhand, going to the post-office, and posting my articles to the editors of the local newspapers. And I used to be elated when they were published. It had almost turned me into a child celebrity. And this recognition thrilled me. 

And this childhood zeal unknowingly turned into a passion for journalism. After my graduation in English Literature from Indraprastha College for Women, University of Delhi, it almost seemed natural for me to enrol for a course in journalism. And I picked up the basics of journalism from the Indian Institute of Mass Communication (IIMC)in Delhi. Thereafter, there was no looking back. Starting my career as a trainee journalist with the India Today magazine in Delhi, I got an opportunity to work with some of the best editors of the country . However, I found that desk job was too tedious. I longed to be on the field and report from the ground. Thereafter, I had to shift base from Delhi to Guwahati due to my mother’s ill-health. Back in Guwahati, I joined the northeast bureau of The Telegraph newspaper and handled the Features desk. Thereafter, I joined as the Principal Correspondent for Tehelka magazine where I got an opportunity to travel to nook and corner of the region and report hardcore conflict. 

You were in the middle of gunfights in Bulletproof. Why did you call your book as such when it shared much about gun violence? 

The title of the book, ‘Bulletproof’ has an interesting story. At a conference of women journalists from South Asia, I was at a session on reporting conflict. As the discussion flowed, the moderator asked me, ‘Do you wear a bulletproof jacket when you go reporting?’ This simple question rattled me. I had been reporting hardcore conflict from one of the most insurgency ravaged regions of the world. It was a region that had witnessed several decades of violence and bloodshed. Reporting from such a region has a fear factor that is real. There were occasions when I was nearly ambushed while I was on the ground reporting. I was unaware that bulletproof jackets existed for journalists reporting from a conflict zone. I got to know about a drill called the Hostile Environment and First Aid Training (HEFAT), a training programme for journalists working for international media outlets. So, when I had decided to write a memoir about my reporting experiences, I decided to call it ‘Bulletproof’ in the sense that we journalists reporting from northeast India are bulletproof. We go to the field with just a pen, notebook, mobile phone (now) and our intuition to guide us. We go unprepared for all the physical as well as psychological hazards that journalists have to face while reporting conflict. As I was one of the few women journalists reporting hardcore conflict and a low-intensity war, Bulletproof is a first-of-its-kind account and a story of a female combat journalist and her encounters with insurgency from northeast India.

What pushed you into reporting about communities living in the margins, even militants? 

Most people who live in mainland India know very little about the northeast, beyond maybe a handful of facts, stereotypes or broad generalisations.The region is often ghettoised as a monolith. When you report from a conflict zone like Northeast India, it is imperative that you report on conflict and its various implications. Reporting from the periphery has its pitfalls. It was not a choice but a compulsion. An editor of a national media outlet had, in fact, even told me that conflict sells though northeast India does not sell. Once I got into reporting hardcore conflict and could meet several militant leaders, I got an opportunity to understand the nuances of conflict from close quarters. I tried to comprehend what made a boy barely out of his teens to grab the AK 47. I could drift into the lives of women and children who are the collateral victims in any kind of conflict situation. Going beyond mere statistics, of deaths and arms recovered, and other documentary evidence, it shows us how conflict impacts women, children, health, environment, sanitation, wildlife and society. This book is a collection of rare human stories from one of the most under-reported regions in the world.

Your book demystified militants. Did you feel scared meeting them? What was your reaction? Why did they never attack you?  

A chapter in my book is titled ‘Militants turned Mediapersons’. The publicity wing of any militant group is one of the most important wings. Therefore, they would welcome journalists visiting them. They understood the power of the media therefore they were willing to provide any kind of information and guidance to a journalist eager to report on them. Though most of them were awkward while meeting a female journalist like me. Conflict reporting seems very masculine – full of stories of artillery, statistics, guns, weapons, soldiers, militants, peace talks, and often dry press releases. The sub-plots, the stories of the common people, especially of women and children, are often unaccounted for. More so, a woman consistently reporting hardcore conflict from the region is unheard of. I was young and restless to get my story. Therefore, I persisted.

What makes militants different from the mainstream? How and why did such people resort to violence? 

The people who took up arms for a ‘cause’ did it for various reasons – ideological, social, cultural. They are also termed as non-state actors who sometimes run a parallel administration along with the state government. Some people may resent their presence but for many of their own community, they are also local heroes. It’s just a matter of what lens you use to look at them.

You sometimes took your children along for the interviews. Were you not apprehensive of how they would impact your children? Did they ever harm you, your children or your family? Elaborate on why. 

My children were part of my life. I remember my elder daughter accompanying me when I had gone to meet the poachers. She quietly sat with me. On one occasion she was engrossed playing with the children of the village. In fact, after I had reported on the fake encounter in Manipur, I was grilled by various investigating agencies including the CBI, SIT and the Judicial Commission. I was expecting my second child then. I had difficulty walking up the stairs when I had gone to the CBI office in Guwahati. I had sought recuse from being called to Imphal, the capital of Manipur because I was getting veiled threats from various quarters. My girls grew up seeing their absent-minded mother who had at times forgotten to change their diapers as she was busy filing a story from her laptop.

How are people living in the margins different from mainstream? 

People are the same everywhere. It’s just the difference in resources and basic amenities, roads, communication etc that makes it difficult for them. For instance, many parts of the northeast are still inaccessible because of the difficult geographical terrain. Most parts are still pristine, untouched by the ugly face of development. However, the prolonged conflict and the low-intensity war has taken a toll in the minds and hearts of the people. 

Can the marginalised be integrated into the mainstream? Explain your stance. 

It depends on what you perceive as the mainstream and what is the margin. And is integration even needed? Connectivity and linkages are important in terms of basic amenities and resources, while preserving diversity. But I would prefer inclusive development over forced integration. Unity in diversity is an ideal situation.

Were you scared or apprehensive while reporting on them? 

Reporting from a conflict zone has a fear factor that is real. I would be lying if I said that I did not get scared while I was on the field. I was aware of the risks I was taking on. But I never went prepared. I was armed only with my pen, notebook and my intuition. I simply assumed that I would be safe and if anything went wrong, I might have to think of ways to wriggle my way out. A safety gear or bulletproof jacket did not exist for me. It’s not that I was oblivious to the fact that all over the world female journalists are killed, assaulted, threatened and defamed. In fact, it was much later that I learnt that, in order to help women journalists stay safe in unsafe regions, International Women’s Media Foundation (IWMF) provides the much-needed Hostile Environment and First-Aid Training (HEFAT).  In HEFAT courses, journalists participate in both classroom-based learning and real-life scenarios that simulate situations that journalists may encounter in the field. I had personally encountered some of these situations like emergency first-aid, digital security, personal security, civil unrest, emotional care, and checkpoint navigation. But I went without any training or briefing. And I was oblivious of my own safety — both physical and mental. I was young and passionate. And getting the story right was all that mattered.

What was your most memorable experience? 

In a positive sense, I have had the opportunity to travel to remote parts of Northeast India and report on the lives of common men, women and children. I was pained by how the long-pronged conflict impacted lives. However, the stories of conflict that I had tried to report with empathy and a deeper understanding that, in turn, showed me the humane side of hostility.  

Did this reporting have an impact on you? On your family? How did you tackle it? 

Yes, as every other human being,I was affected by the trauma caused by reporting conflict. In fact, I had suffered from post-traumatic stress disorder after all that I had to go through after my reportage on the fake encounter in Manipur. I had become irritable and angry on witnessing the aftermath that led to a civil uprising in the state. It was a lonely battle for me. This is why I have been advocating for the physical and mental safety of journalists.

Did your being a woman make a difference? 

I often tell people that you can either be a good journalist or a bad journalist. But, in reality your gender does come into play, especially when you are reporting from the margins, a conflict zone and a difficult geographical terrain. Being a woman in a conflict zone is fraught with dangers and that includes sexual assault. I often carried pepper spray (which I never had to use), in my grab bag. Moreover, there are practical problems like lack of toilets for women on the field and even in the workplace. Most media houses that survive on contractual workers do not have provisions of maternity leave for their female employees. There are many women who have to drop-out midway at the peak of their career as they have to engage themselves in childbearing and rearing. There is a need for a support system like a creche, for instance for working journalists, both men and women.

What would be your advice for young journalists? 

I believe that journalists will come and journalists will go. More so, the mediums of delivering news are changing with the fast-evolving technology. The newsrooms have evolved from being confined to a structured building to the knapsack of a journalist who is now equipped with a mobile phone, popularly known as a mojo. With the rise of digital tools, almost everyone is transformed into a content communicator or a publisher now. This has blurred the lines between personal interaction and public content creation.

However, the cardinal principles of truth and objectivity of an upright shoe-leather journalist will stand the test of time.  The fundamental values and ethics of storytelling remain timeless, acting as a crucial, enduring, and non-negotiable tool for human connection, empathy, and truth-telling, even as mediums adapt to the digital age.

Teresa Rehman

 (This review and online interview by email is by Mitali Chakravarty)

PLEASE NOTE: ARTICLES CAN ONLY BE REPRODUCED IN OTHER SITES WITH DUE ACKNOWLEDGEMENT TO BORDERLESS JOURNAL

Click here to access Wild Winds: The Borderless Anthology of Poems

Click here to access the Borderless anthology, Monalisa No Longer Smiles

Categories
Musings of a Copywriter

A Suitable Business

By Devraj Singh Kalsi

From Public Domain

Spending three decades of adult life without consuming a single drop of alcohol should awaken the introspection. What could possibly be wrong with me? I have been surrounded by friends and teachers who drank and danced together. I have enjoyed their spirited company, but I have never been tempted, never felt inclined to sip what made them tipsy. I have been dumped for not providing unconditional love, but I did not pour wine on my wounded heart for emotional relief. Over the years, I have worked well with seniors and juniors who relished whisky, rum, and beer though I never raised a toast or said cheers. Perhaps the underlying fear that I would end up revealing all my dark secrets in an inebriated state puts brakes on my urge to hit the bottle!

A dry creative life appears inevitable in such a pitiable situation and this worry mounts pressure on me. The haunting fear of failure in artistic pursuits seems likely to push me to the edge of addiction where I am left stranded with no other option. However, I find encouragement from liquor-loving authors crafting flowing prose as they credit this strength to their weakness. Thanking the altered state of mind that generates wild, imaginative ideas under the influence of alcohol. That becomes the blissful reality of their fiction. I reserve my right to try this option if natural stimulants fail to deliver effective results.

We are warned not to hold the steering wheel of a car in a drunken state, forget gliding a pen on paper but here the wine-loving authors draw a comparison to study the difference in their writing output. The sample produced after consuming alcohol reads better than the other writing sample produced when they were sober. The takeaway is that such writing automatically tends to be shaky whereas what is produced after gulping liquor stands strong and holds the reader’s fleeting attention. Retention of such a fine balance of readability and creativity is worth appreciating in the literary circles where intoxicating prose garners critical praise. Till now, I had only known writers and poets drinking liquor because of commercial failure or romantic letdowns. Changing times brew new realities as the creativity booster impact of alcohol has now been verbally and vocally established without conducting any clinical findings.    

Forget the class of art-loving people who cheer up with three cheers to everything that gives a high in this dystopian world, carrying them on wobbly legs to a utopian world from where they do not wish to return anytime soon. Discovering alcohol addiction in a devout self-styled ‘saint’ who preaches the combined therapy of spiritual wisdom and divine living to her growing cult of followers was an eye-opener of sorts for me. Posting pictures of her pouring whisky in a glass and sipping it with her married daughter delivered awareness about the duality present in her character. Her followers had never seen her in this avatar. So, any attempt to bring this reality to their knowledge would be dismissed as a malicious move engineered by circulating her doctored image. While to those who are educated and liberal, she would emerge as a strong-willed lady who has broken the gender barrier and loves to celebrate intoxicating life.

In fact, her alcohol-friendly nature is likely to be read as a bold, receptive move to break free of everything that holds them back in multiple guises. She would come across as a transparent source of inspiration to the womenfolk who should give company to their spouse so that he does not wander into local bars or get into fights for his neat peg, or falls into open manholes or wades through overflowing high drains, creating a bad impression for the entire family and causing heartburn for those who feel ashamed that the householder comes home drunk. As a dutiful wife, she would ensure that he gets the company of his soul mate and drinks along with her instead of seeking exploitative friends and female colleagues to drink with and waste hard-earned money. A dignified step of this kind from a pious guide goes a long way to reforming the husband who gradually tones down his addiction and turns it occasional at home.  

Performing this noble task as a wife is no mean achievement as she has partnered with her alcoholic husband to make him give up this habit. While neither of them kicks this habit, she finds it a source of forgetting the sorrow of widowhood as she drinks to mourn losing him forever now. She finds a group of kitty party friends to continue the habit of drinking and trying out new wines to keep her skin glowing.

When I told this to her daughter who was once slightly fond of me, she said she was aware of it since her college days, and it was her family tradition to drink liquor without gender discrimination. She called it a sign of progressive outlook and cited examples to differentiate between addiction and casual drinking, to position themselves as drinkers, not drunkards, calling it my narrow thinking to blend them all without any pride. She said her spiritually awakened mother was a sober drinker of quality wines, and she never entered into any brawl with neighbours or guests, never created mischief or spoke ill against them. Such a robust attempt to defend her mother’s drinking habit gave me a real high and I wished I could encourage some women of my household to seek inspiration.  

My father and my slew of uncles were classified as occasional, seasonal, festival drinkers more active during the winters or weddings. I had the privilege of holding their fancy bottles in my hand during my childhood, just like trophies won in tournaments. I could rattle off the names of popular brands of whisky and create a flutter in my circle of friends who envied my vast knowledge and predicted I would grow up to be a heavy drinker. Their prediction remained unrealised.

My distaste for alcohol stems from close observation of people who ruined their promising careers after hitting the bottle and not all of them were in the creativity business. The loss of their potential contribution made me feel the world would have been richer if they had stayed away from alcohol.  

What usually begins as a flirtation with beer because of low alcohol content and more froth, suddenly graduates one to more toxic stuff that causes organ damage though many alcoholic folks also guzzle black coffee to limit liver damage. Whether they are successful in reversing it or not is inconclusive, but they have a sense of satisfaction that they made genuine efforts to improve their overall health. I still remember one middle-aged uncle who came home drunk to attend the funeral ceremony of my father. Even today I find his liver rallying behind him without turning fatty, supporting him well without complaints or transplant needs though he is almost ninety now and a chronic drinker who has not cut it down to maintain organ health.   

Much younger cousins have kept alive the family tradition by making alcohol an integral part of their lives. They have made it a mission to take the legacy forward and become chronic drinkers who drink gallons. The entire town knows about their drinking parties and many family friends read this as a sign of destruction. But the fact that they are prospering at a faster rate than many of us should end all speculation regarding decay and doom. Not drinking liquor seems to imply in this case that the person has not grown up as a well-balanced professional. One who cannot hold himself after a few pegs does not hold any promise, so this lucrative trade makes me seriously ponder over the scope of becoming a wine merchant myself – or setting up a distillery unit after my romance with distilled words fails to win hearts.

I was recently introduced to a successful entrepreneur from the local belt who has tasted success in such a start-up. He won the respect of a community that refuses to acknowledge creativity as a respectable pursuit. However, it shows love to the ‘respectable’ businessman with shady contacts that deserve to be exposed instead of getting lauded in the community that looks desperate to seek his company. They love to take photographs with him and post them in social media. The religious gatherings are incomplete without his presence and he has to be present to begin any auspicious program, as if he is the lucky fellow and God’s beloved child who can do a great job for the entire community while the truth is that he is poisoning the entire populace. Yet, he wins claps instead of slaps from holy men and politicians offering support and protection.

People rise up from their seats when this wine merchant enters the room. I was lucky (not sure) to be introduced to him and he sought to know what I did for a living. When I said I was a writer, he lost interest in me. Considered useless, I was pushed aside and never smiled at again. My presence, he pretended, was as valuable as my absence. The wine-seller was calling the shots. Even the priest genuflected before his materialistic prowess, showing his readiness to cancel appointments or reschedule them just to ensure he was given top priority — another stark reminder that VIP culture remains dominant in religious spots.

So I decided to join the bandwagon. On a barren parcel of land in a faraway area outside the city, I decided to set up a distillery. This has won hearts. The foundation stone laying ceremony is yet to be performed but the entire area is abuzz with excitement that a new distillery is coming up here. The populace that enjoys booze will come from the nearby areas will come to find out more about the plans of completing this unit and how soon the new liquor will be available in the market. Thay are curious to know if it’s going to be local or foreign liquor. With so much of information and misinformation flying around like dust, the distillery has garnered attention. There are congratulations flowing in – something I did not get in any other profession. They have blessed me to be successful as I make the community proud of doing a great service. Something I never received in my earlier attempts to continue doing a creative job. My exit from it is now certain as I am planning to focus on the new business venture launched in partnership.

If I had been a failure in creative work, I would have hit the bottle. So, I must ensure my safety and not drink my own distillery products to heal my agonies and forget my failures. A failed artist seeking refuge in alcohol is a nightmarish idea for me, so it is better to taste material success by selling alcohol and build a fortune instead of wasting time on words and sentences that do not seem to connect with the masses.

I have to benefit from the wine trade, and I am ready to sacrifice my dreams just to make this a profitable business. After that, if I find the time and energy to write, I would consider indulging. Otherwise, I’ll remain focused on making liquor my flagship business. I am sure more powerful heads will notice the change and give acceptance and blessings to my new business venture. My spirit will be charged in the spirits business as I will become the most admired and deified person because I would generate employment and provide fullness to the parched souls even if it devastates the health and future of many households.     

From Public Domain

Devraj Singh Kalsi works as a senior copywriter in Kolkata. His short stories and essays have been published in Deccan Herald, Tehelka, Kitaab, Earthen Lamp Journal, Assam Tribune, and The Statesman. Pal Motors is his first novel.  

PLEASE NOTE: ARTICLES CAN ONLY BE REPRODUCED IN OTHER SITES WITH DUE ACKNOWLEDGEMENT TO BORDERLESS JOURNAL

Click here to access Wild Winds: The Borderless Anthology of Poems

Click here to access the Borderless anthology, Monalisa No Longer Smiles

Categories
Musings of a Copywriter

‘All Creatures Great and Small’

Narrative and photographs by Devraj Singh Kalsi

My neighbour, leaning against the boundary wall, informed me that the cow stood waiting for me at the entrance gate for more than an hour. While many people feel delighted to keep others waiting, a sense of guilt pervades me in case I am held responsible for delays. Although my friends never waited for more than five minutes for me, here was a new friend from the animal world telling me there are exceptions. I wore an apologetic look when I opened the gate, with the cow stepping back to grant me the space to enter comfortably with the year-end sale shopping bags.

Our regular bovine visitor stood firm on the hind legs of patience and mooed once or twice to draw my attention to the pending chores. A sort of gentle reminder that the feeding exercise should be marked as a priority since I was back home from the marketplace now. My communication skills with human beings are poor, and here I was faced with the bigger challenge of non-verbal communication. I did not know how to make the cow understand I was really sorry – and keen to make amends by serving her some something special. After the long hour of patient wait, the cow deserved a wholesome treat. Haven’t we all heard the popular saying that the fruit of patience is always sweet? Surely, it extends to other creatures belonging to this universe because the same laws of nature govern the lives of birds and animals as well.

When I returned to the gate, the cow looked at what was in my hands. As I served her a plateful of jaggery chunks, she relished the sweet offering instead of the usual serving of potatoes and vegetable peels. Her slow mastication while establishing direct eye contact with me seemed like an act of gratitude. I stood gazing at her to see if she needed a second helping. She chose to sit down and spread positive vibes. Guessing that she needed something else, I went inside to bring wheat flour or cabbage leaves. The offered items did not make the cow restless to stand up and eat, suggesting that she was already full. She focused on better digestion and exercised self-control unlike human beings who eat excessively and then complain of bloating and over-eating.

Her presence was certainly auspicious but the stray dogs stayed away from the heavyweight cow, lurking in the corner and waiting for their daily quota of biscuits for glucose boost-up to chase cyclists and bikers. As the biscuits descended in their direction like manna from heaven, they ran together for their share while the cow looked at them once and then shut her eyes to concentrate on relaxation techniques, occasionally swishing her tail to make flies maintain a healthy distance from her body. When a cawing jet-black crow flew down and perched on her back, scanning the crumbs lying scattered on the ground to pick up its booty, I stood amazed at the precision with which the bird clutched a big chunk in its beak and flew away to the nearest branch. The dogs kept barking to vent their frustration, to mourn the substantial loss of their share. Oblivious to the chaotic goings-on around, the cow maintained her posture and reminded me of how to stay unperturbed despite chaos and confusion happening around us.

The sight of a composed, unruffled cow was inspirational and it encouraged the dogs to come near and pick up the biscuit crumbs, occasionally keeping a sharp eye on the sudden movements of the cow. Just one quick glance at what these dogs were up to assured the cow that there was no imminent danger in sight. The neighbour, who stood watching this entire spectacle, chipped in with an acerbic comment, sarcastically calling me the chosen one to perform the act of service, blessed with the special ability to match the frequency level of other creatures instead of fellow human beings.

Suspecting it was his clever strategy to duck responsibilities, I urged him to generously feed these creatures whenever he found time from his busy schedule. He said no astrologer had advised him to balance his planetary positions by feeding birds and animals. Attaching a selfish motive to the selfless act meant he saw me as a rank opportunist. Perhaps he felt I was doing it for a short span of time and the bonding exercise would conclude in a month. That this was meant to last much longer was way beyond his imagination and my revealing such grand plans would stoke up further jealousy. It was safer to let him read and interpret everything the way he liked while I should focus on what I was doing – without bothering about how my neighbours reacted to my activities. The day was not far when they would scold and shoo away the birds for turning up at my gate for their dietary needs every day.

As I turned back to enter the house, the birds swooped down in search of foodgrains. While the other species were having their share, sparrows and pigeons pecked around for the leftover stuffs. I replenished the stock on the cemented pavement garden – to enable them to locate the grains with ease. The gentle flock did not raise a flutter, allowing me the time and space to serve them with dignity.

After I came back, their chirping turned high-pitched as they gave a joyous, riotous welcome to the squirrels who came down from the rooftop. What I noticed for a change was some squirrels scoured the area for biscuit bites, suggesting a need for variety in their feed. It was not the staple grain diet but perhaps, they yearned for something sweet and tasty. While some birds were still engaged in pecking the grains, a few rebellious ones joined the troop of squirrels.

As I gained new insight into their dietary preferences, I chose to add biscuits to the menu. Their inclination to have grains looked compromised while the biscuit pieces were polished off really fast. That they were now, with each passing day, getting closer to me, feeling less threatened by human presence, flying over my head at times, and settling down near my feet, came as a pleasant surprise. That I was a harmless creature was certified by their fearlessness.

When the milkman came to deliver, he saw me surrounded by sparrows and wondered at their thriving presence in the mobile-driven world threatening their existence. Their playfulness was evident in their hopping around on the bed of grass. Their landing on the window grille to see the blooming, sun-kissed petunias created a photo-worthy scene and he clicked the fluttering birds on his smartphone before they took flight after this sudden intrusion. Maybe he clicked them mid-flight, in motion, snapping a picture worth sharing with friends and posting across social media platforms to celebrate the closeness.

The tall Asoka trees were where these birds built their nests and most of them disappeared into the green branches after this brief episode of invasion of privacy. That these birds did not have to search hard for food was a good thing since most of their daily needs were met inside the compound. Gaining easy access to eatables was ruining their habit of flying for hours. But to search for food for long hours and then return disappointed was also not a good outcome after a day of hard work. Something that demoralises and compromises the spirit of survival against all odds. The Most cute-looking in the backdrop of the photo frame were squirrels who held the biscuits firmly and took small bites. Being unable to carry them, they split the biscuits into tiny pieces and then rushed off with the booty to the garage rooftop where they could eat without any disturbance and also hoard some bits in the hollow pipes and wall cavities for consumption later.   

This day offered a memorable learning lesson – a reminder that I should not leave the house without making provisions for them. I made a new year resolution: not to be casual about feeding  these creatures. They should not be forced to wait for the resident to return home. Taking them for granted would amount to bad human behaviour, in line with how the world treats those who do not wield any kind of power. One never knows when their hunger pangs turn severe and when these animals turn up at the gate for their feed and relief. The refreshments should be laid out like a buffet spread – to pick whatever they like to eat, whenever they like to eat.

A diverse outdoor congregation cannot be complete without a special guest worth mentioning here: a white furry cat frequents the buffet for milk. The bowl was filled with milk. The cat slowly and cautiously emerged from behind the wall, and began to slurp from the container, taking small breaks to see what the other creatures were enjoying in the garden. Then the cat shook her head quite vigorously to signal the return of fresh energy and stretched her limbs. Spreading herself on the rubber doormat, she looks at my face. Her paws rested on her belly and this perfect chill-mode followed a wide yawn and the need for a post-lunch quick nap.

I disappeared from the scene, leaving the cat alone to enjoy some moments of privacy. Usually, the cat is afraid of dogs, but their presence outside the main gate did not impact her much. They barked a few times to assert their power and she meowed at a competitive pitch in response to register her disapproval during sleep time. Instead of choosing to retreat, the cat remained cosy in her space, and the dogs noticed the royal privilege she enjoyed inside the compound. Their mutual enmity took a backseat for the time being as the dogs chose not to waste their energy on the cat once they found an overloaded motor van to chase on the deserted road.

While they have not become best friends yet, their sense of fear and threat has reduced, giving way to tolerance. When I open the door in the morning, I find the dogs waiting outside and the cat resting on the mat on the stairs. They see each other every morning but they do not disturb each other. The same goes with birds. When the cow arrives, the dogs do not run away, just step aside to allow her space. With their growing acceptance I am more turning more sensitive to their needs.

The bowl meant for the cat has to be washed clean every day before the milk is poured. The grains for birds have to be checked for stones and the jaggery for the cow should be ant-free. No casual disposition but extreme care to ensure the best hygiene practices for them even though these creatures seem to be unaware of consuming clean things alone. Even when there is not much leisure time to serve, my conscience does not allow me to be flippant and finish off everything in a hurry. Cut down on screen time to care for them is what the inner voice urges me to do.    

Ever since I chose to have other creatures as my friends, many of my lost friends and colleagues from the past have reconnected with me. Now the time I spend in the company of birds and cats and cows and dogs is claimed by human friends. I do not feel comfortable to invest heavily on my old friends who proved disloyal and seasonal. Finding a delicate balance between animal and human time is the key to keeping people as well as other creatures happy.

When I think of leaving this place, I am tied down by the needs of other creatures. A holiday trip would deprive them of food supplies so I must make arrangements for them, perhaps ask the caretaker to do it for some days. And if I leave this place forever, I must ask the person who comes next to be generous towards these creatures.

With this diversity of my animal family growing, with new members like mongoose and snakes, I am reminded of the need to be kind to all – instead of focusing on their capacity to harm. Let the slithering snake also join in and drink milk kept aside for the cat. I am confident the mixed community will not make it bare its fangs. The poison inside the snake is quite likely to remain saved unless the mongoose comes around for a challenging bloodbath session. Finding snake skin in the garage suggested it was shed recently and the serpent moved out soon after.

Now the provisions are arranged in advance to last for a month but when there are guests like monkeys trooping in once a week, the stockpile of bananas falls short. The grille gate is their acrobatic zone and they stay suspended to showcase their skills and impress. When I offer them something to eat, they come down fast and grab the eatables without a proper handshake.  

Expecting surprises from monkeys is common. As the priest this year was about to perform annual prayer rituals in front of the car, a big monkey came down from the parapet and grabbed the coconut from the plate and cracked it open in front of the bonnet. The priest offered bananas and the monkey walked away quietly like a brave hero strutting the stage with swag. The priest chanted some mantras and stood watching in awe, calling it divine intervention. He said the monkey god had performed the puja successfully and there was not much left for him to do so he rode off on his scooter with mixed feelings. Whenever monkeys visit my humble abode, I am reminded of this incident that has stayed with me. Perched on the branches, they are least bothered by those shouting at them. The ground floor inhabitants do not matter at all. Learning to ignore is vital for survival. With so much to observe about animal behaviour and mannerisms, I realise I am not quite capable of understanding their feelings. The truth that the world has other important, valuable creatures we need to co-exist with becomes a palpable reality.

Devraj Singh Kalsi works as a senior copywriter in Kolkata. His short stories and essays have been published in Deccan Herald, Tehelka, Kitaab, Earthen Lamp Journal, Assam Tribune, and The Statesman. Pal Motors is his first novel.  

PLEASE NOTE: ARTICLES CAN ONLY BE REPRODUCED IN OTHER SITES WITH DUE ACKNOWLEDGEMENT TO BORDERLESS JOURNAL

Click here to access the Borderless anthology, Monalisa No Longer Smiles

Click here to access Monalisa No Longer Smiles on Kindle Amazon International

Categories
Musings of a Copywriter

Red Carpet Welcome

By Devraj Singh Kalsi

Even if it has nothing to do with Cannes or any other star-studded celebrity jamboree or political protocol, walking the red carpet is a dream come true for those attending marriage receptions. The red carpet is laid out right from the entrance gate to the podium where the newlywed couple remain ensconced in plush royal chairs to receive guests trudging with gifts and bouquets. The kick one gets when one walks on it is indescribable, as real-life experiences of such episodes remain fresh and permanently etched on my memory. It is the closest to what ordinary mortals can ever experience of celebrity status.

Have you ever wondered about the source of confidence in those who are sure of getting a red-carpet welcome in life? Perhaps it is faith in destiny or God or contacts or their talent. But for those who have none of the above factors skewed in their favour, it is the art of making the commonplace look uncommon and turning the massy into something of a bit classy that makes them celebrate ordinariness through elevation and derive pleasure in some measure to satiate their hunger of being dubbed as important folks that have walked on this planet. Even if there are no worthy guests on the list, the red carpet makes them all special in a democratic fashion. 

Ever since the realisation dawned that the surest way to downgrade the value of the red carpet is to make it so obvious or ubiquitous that there is no iota of status attached to those walking on it wearing anything from sandals to stilettos, I have contributed my fair bit by walking on the carpet wearing flip-flops and shorts. That was considered nothing less than a sacrilege.

Although a little hesitant about socialising, the idea of walking the red carpet without the tuxedo has never set my mind ablaze like a forest fire. I am more than cool to walk the red carpet wearing a sherwani[1] from the local tailoring unit or a pair of straight jeans from the retailer next door. I have relished the sight of those wearing dhotis[2] and walking the red carpet with a sense of pride over our remarkable strength to localise it. The white chappals with socks raised high to cover the varicose veins make it camera worthy. Visitors who do not feel intimidated by the veneer of superiority of the red carpet are the truly evolved ones who have successfully turned the special welcome into something quite mundane.

Women decked up in salwar kameez and posing for cameras to click their grand entry is a delectable sight. When their expectations are razed to the ground as the cameras show scant interest in the red carpet and focus more on those gorging on delicacies and gobbling up like gluttons, their family members freeze the moment of reckoning as well as their glam look while strutting the red carpet for social media posts only to be pushed aside by another jostling, impatient couple usurping the space for shutterbugs to randomly click them for their profile feeds before their makeup begins to melt under the harsh glare. With all the guests having staged their presence on the red carpet, there is a sense of contentment that they have finally done what their idol celebrities do with panache.    

The burgeoning middle class, thanks to marriage halls, has used the red carpet as a mandatory sign of affluence to pose as arriviste, making it a democratic exercise like the right to vote for all those who often feel they are going to miss the red carpet welcome in life due to their non-achiever status. Though the aspirational value of the red carpet welcome has, perhaps, waned a bit in recent times.

While the majority celebrates the red carpet becoming a reality for all, there are some who still detest at the idea of loss of exclusivity. Many families spread a red carpet in their homes and give an enthusing welcome to their guests every day. Even though they have done nothing to deserve it, they are happy with the fulfilment of luxury in a smart affordable manner. The trend of using the red carpet to flaunt status and deliver status to other people has become an everyday practice.

Imagine an entire family walking the red carpet with hands on the waist, posing for cameras even if the pictures do not appear in tabloids. Their social media handles garner likes, and the sharing of images makes them feel like a celebrity in their limited circle. Even after attending several such events and walking the red carpet multiple times, taming of desire remains a challenge. While it is easier to be rich and more difficult to earn fame, celebrity status redefines itself to widen the circle of pseudo-celebrities getting high after walking the red carpet as an antidote to assuage their bloated sentiments of undiminished narcissism.

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[1] Long coat worn for formal occasions in South Asia

[2] A garment worn in lieu of trousers

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Devraj Singh Kalsi works as a senior copywriter in Kolkata. His short stories and essays have been published in Deccan Herald, Tehelka, Kitaab, Earthen Lamp Journal, Assam Tribune, and The Statesman. Pal Motors is his first novel.  


PLEASE NOTE: ARTICLES CAN ONLY BE REPRODUCED IN OTHER SITES WITH DUE ACKNOWLEDGEMENT TO BORDERLESS JOURNAL

Click here to access the Borderless anthology, Monalisa No Longer Smiles

Click here to access Monalisa No Longer Smiles on Kindle Amazon International