24th February was an important day. Through the weeks leading up, on the morning of the day itself, through newspapers, television programming, and social media, we were told about an important visitor and how far we will be stretching to show him a good time. Like kids are often told when guests come over, this was a day for India to show its best colours. Yesterday, India not only showed its best — at the welcome party and the new Motera Stadium — but it also showed its truest.
As this country’s Head of State was putting on his pristine white kurta and Nehru jacket (the jokes write themselves) to welcome his friend from the United States, Hindu households in some Muslim-dominated neighbourhoods of New Delhi began hoisting orange flags on their balconies and roofs. It was a blanket to protect them from the cold blood of the CAA supporters who, later in the day, beat up civilians and set factories and houses on fire. All the violence, aimed at anti-nationals as the abetting Delhi Police would have you believe, predictably and unerringly found the vulnerable from only one religion.
The pictures and videos that percolated to social media by the evening bore an apocalyptic look that wouldn’t feel out of place in the next instalment of the Mad Max film series. When I wrote about the violence and protests in January, I remember thinking about how we are letting ourselves down by sacrificing our dignity for political ideologies. I am currently giggling at how naive I was to even consider most of us had any of it left. Newspapers, in their reporting of events that are barely believable anymore, have called it — once again — a clash between the anti-CAA protestors and those who support the bill. Most of the television media, up until that toxic blob of American flesh was in town, turned a complete blind eye towards the other incidents in the national capital. The Chief Minister of Delhi, in the hours after entire settlements were razed down by Molotov cocktails, spoke about how the First Lady of United States must’ve taken fond memories of India back to the States.
The last three months, or seven, when you consider what’s happening in Kashmir, seemed as surreal as we could’ve imagined. Between shutting down an entire state to firing actual bullets at college students, some of us would’ve thought this is the lowest this government could go in suppressing dissent. On Monday, we, on either side of the argument, were all proved wrong. There is indeed no depth the BJP — yes, I will name the party — wouldn’t touch to protect and propagate their vision of a radicalised, single-religion nation. In a lot of ways, yesterday felt like a punishment for the significant political pushback — Delhi elections — against that idea. “Go on, stage your Shaheen Baghs” seemed to be the loud and clear message from the state.
When the consequence of a protest for your rights is a wooden stick to your head or a burning fire on the flimsy roof of your house, how long will you, can you, hold out? It is, in purely privileged admittance, easy to wish for a situation where resistance outlives persecution. Only when you see the kind of communities that the state has targeted do you realise the extent of perseverance it requires from those who have very little to gain and all to lose out of this battle.
Yesterday was the kind of day when you could watch your John Oliver videos, read your Reuters and NYT editorials, and still not be able to shake off the sinking feeling in your gut. It was the kind of day when you questioned what lay ahead for a country you may or may not entirely love, but still, one you were born into. Like my friend pointed out here — it hurt when a school teacher hit you with a ruler. How hard does one have to be hit for a wooden wicket to break into two? How much must it hurt?