Mumbai’s midnight tryst with poetry, protest

At about 1am on January 6, at Gateway of India, all you heard was the click of approximately 200 people snapping their fingers to a slow but steady beat. They were

At about 1am on January 6, at Gateway of India, all you heard was the click of approximately 200 people snapping their fingers to a slow but steady beat. They were snapping because holding candles meant only one hand free. They were also snapping because those reciting poetry and singing songs didn’t have a microphone. So, straining their ears to hear what was being said, protesters snapped their fingers to the beat of the words they heard; collective rage contained and articulated in the rhythmic clicks.

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The protest seemed to emerge out of nowhere. As news came in on Sunday night, of Jawaharlal Nehru University (JNU) being attacked by masked vandals, simple messages were sent from friend to friend: “Come to Gateway. Candle-light vigil at midnight.” Those guilty of going on a rampage at JNU may have figured that news of their violence would come out at an hour well past the average Indian bedtime. However, Mumbai is a city that doesn’t sleep.

It was low tide at Apollo Bunder when protesters started showing up. Occasionally, a breeze would blow out the candles that were diligently re-lit by protesters who sat on the pavement, with the brilliantly-lit Taj Mahal Palace Hotel on one side and the monumental presence of the Gateway on the other. By 12.45am, the hotel’s façade was in shadow while hundreds sang songs like “Hum Honge Kaamyaab” and “Hum Dekhenge”. People stood up to read out poems, many of them original. “It’s like a protest-themed open mic night,” someone said “but with actual good stuff.” “And without a mic,” added someone else.

Rather than the few celebrities present, like Konkona Sen Sharma, the poets were the stars of the night. As the crowd grew, it became harder to hear those speaking. So each line was repeated, like the passing of a baton, and finally chanted loudly by everyone. In this way, every word and every poem became an anthem. Imagine the hundreds-strong chorus reciting, “Tum lakh humein pabandh karo, hum phir bhi bole jayenge. Hum sach ko likhtey jaayenge, hum haq ka naara lagayenge. Tere jhooth se hum takraenge.” (Restrain us, but we’ll keep speaking up. We’ll write the truth, demand our rights and go up against the falsehoods you erect.) Few knew the poet, who said he’s from Kashmir, and no one knew the poem since he’d written it on his way to the Gateway, but everyone spoke his words like they were their own. Another poet received loud cheers when he said “Note-on ke badalte rang se, desh mein rang nahin aata” (Changing the colours of notes doesn’t make the nation more colourful). Yet another stood up to present a lyric about loving one’s country: “Yeh mera desh hai, iss se mein chup-chaap mohabbat karta hu” (It’s my country and I love it without making a noise). The poem’s refrain, addressed to those who would dictate how patriotism is expressed, was “Tum kaun ho bey?” and everyone relished yelling the line out loud. At the time, few knew this protest was going to become what has now been called Occupy Gateway. Protesters would demand the Centre acknowledge it had failed students at educational institutions across the country; that it had caused human rights’ crises in regions like Kashmir, the North-east and Uttar Pradesh; and that laws like the Citizenship (Amendment) and Transgender Persons (Protection of Rights) Acts are unconstitutional.

The next day, more celebrities and some local politicians would join in. Strangers would join in and give power banks, water bottles, vada pav, sandwiches and bananas to the gathered crowd. By 5pm on January 6, the crowd would swell enough to convince Mumbai Police to let protesters into the Gateway’s tourist compound. But at 2.30am, when the protest seemed to have hit a lull, no one knew what would happen 15-odd hours later. It just sounded quiet for the first time since midnight. Former student leader Umar Khalid stepped out of the shadows just then and was greeted as though he was a rock star. For the next few minutes, the night air was filled with loud and determined calls to “azaadi”. No one noticed that beyond the waterfront, the sea had grown louder, too, and the tide was changing.