CHENNAI: My mother hated that I was a reporter, despite my telling her that it was a temporary arrangement. She wanted to go to sleep knowing that I was ‘safely’ working at the editorial desk, away from where the news was happening. I, on the other hand, loved every moment of it: the unpredictability, the thrill, and of course, the bylines.
We were reasonably trained in college for what was to come. “Numb yourself to the insults,” a senior had advised. I always kept that in mind. But once a while, something happens and you walk away knowing that the images of the event would be seared into your brain for ever.
The assignment was at Pachaiyappa’s College where the students were protesting the constant police presence on campus. “Be careful, going in there all by yourself,” the auto anna warned. I nodded nonchalantly and waltzed inside through the side entrance.
After a good, long chat with the students, I went looking for a staff member to see what they had to say.
“Faculty members?” I asked a group of five men huddled a little away from where the students were protesting. They nodded, almost welcoming.
I asked them about the protests and they spoke at length at how the college was being misrepresented by the media. This went on for about five minutes.
“Wait a minute, show me your ID card,” said one, as the conversation shifted to the students’ claims that their identity cards were being seized by police at the gate.
I was a new reporter, I didn’t have one yet I told them. I thought that the worst that could happen was I would be turned away without a quote.
I understood that my arguments were futile and their concern was understandable. I told them it was OK if they did not want to speak to me and I almost got ready to leave.
The change of tone was immediate, as if the press card was the talisman that made me human.
“Wait wait. Who gave you the right to walk in? What does this place look like to you?” asked one, eyeing me from head to toe.
The others had formed a tight semicircle around me, five well-built men, all middle aged. Occasionally one or two of the students would stand on their toes and peep inside the circle, hoping to get a glimpse of the unfortunate soul trapped inside.
“Look at you, carrying your cheap notebook,” said another, his face contorted.
Every time I raised my voice to speak, three others would thunder above me. I did not give up easy and it angered them even more. They sounded determined to show me my place. They laughed, smirked and their tongues did not stop wagging.
In a bid to keep myself cool, I stared off into the distance and conjured up images in my mind where I had made all my arguments heard to the applause of everyone else in the college and these men were standing there, their heads hanging in shame.
I tried to call my boss, trying to block out the voices that continued to taunt me.
“Who are you calling? The Chief Minister?” asked the smirking man who had spoken earlier. It continued for another ten minutes after which I was allowed a gap to walk away.
The word had spread and a few considerate members of the press rose to my defence. Every time the faculty members denied having spoken anything unacceptable to me, I fought back.
“Ask her not to speak in between,” said the same man to the reporter who stood up for me.
I seethed. Was I to understand that this was a conversation between men? That I, the one caught in their sadistic little game, had no say?
As more students gathered to watch and the cameras pointed towards them, I watched as the gang conveniently turned the issue into a debate of misrepresentation of their students by the media.
I stood there on the periphery, watching. Two students walked up to me. “You should forget about this, akka. They are always obsessed with identity cards,” they said, as three other worried faces followed. Their innocent concern almost made me smile. Almost.
I thought about how wrong the auto anna was, for thinking I should be wary of students. Instead he should have warned me about the teachers.
As the crowd dispersed, I took a minute to have one last word with the gang. “The day I get my ID card, I will write about this,” I said as I turned to walk away.
“Oh yes, yes. Please do. Let me see,” I heard the voice behind me.
