Like A Revolution Passing through my Room

Saturday, 9^th April 2016, was the date on which the last of the Azaadi series of lectures was held- Utsa Patnaik speaking on Freedom and Development. After more than a month of lectures, first on nationalism, and then on freedom, an average JNUite knows what to expect during these evenings of gathering at Ad Block, now wonderfully christened Azaadi Chowk, Freedom Square, and in the words of another speaker, Ari Sitas, JNU’s own Tahrir Square (this is my favourite). Barring a few, or perhaps, just one- the delightfully(?) distracting Makarand Paranjape- scholars, activists, artists, workers, and writers, mostly avowed to a left ideology, or at the bare least, speaking the language of revolution, spoke here about struggle, freedom, and democracy. Of course, there were politicians too, a few who were allowed to speak only because of the need to keep portraying JNU as the last vanguard of the freedom of speech, a space that allows all a chance to make themselves heard. Thus it was, that on Saturday, the last lecture took place, one knew instinctively, and out of habit over the past few weeks what was going to come- a critique of the economic policies of the state, a run-down on capitalism, and the reminder as to why we need to be more people-centric. And yet, sitting on the pavement, facing the Ad Block steps, I felt a strange sorrow sweeping over me- something was getting over that evening. Something that, at least for a while, was the centre of our lives in this campus, and something that, for many, will be, to quote Borges, the single moment- the moment when a man knows forever more who he is. It is out of this fleeting emotion of a loss and remembrance that I write this. Much has been written about the political ramifications of this movement, that will keep all of us engaged in reading for at least the next semester (but what else do you expect when you attack a premier research institution of the country, where, like Eric Weiner noted about Iceland, a statue may be erected to someone who is not a poet?). My attempt here is to map a personal journey, as a common student during this entire episode, and what meanings it could hold for hundreds of others like me- us who stood in the front of the rallies, but whose destinies were intertwined with those who bore the actual brunt, who felt threatened by the narrow definitions of long held and cherished sentiments, and who were suddenly wearers of our (otherwise passive) political allegiances on our sleeves. And in an anticipation of a future emotion that might enslave me on a random night, when I lie awake alone, far from JNU and these days of turmoil and youth, I borrow the title of this post from one of ABBA’s best songs, Like an Angel Passing through My Room.

In this peaceful solitude,

All the outside world subdued,

Everything comes back to me again,

In the gloom,

Like an angel passing through my room.

As mundane and insignificant as it sounds, the first personal chord that the entire issue struck in me was that my Instagram crush, Anirban was one of those who went into hiding, following Kanhaiya’s arrest. A week later, he emerged, with Umar, at midnight, at our Tahrir Square. For the first time, I looked at Umar, and introspected- he became suddenly, the keeper of the conscience of a society that conveniently relegates this task to a select few, thus prompting me to draw a comparison between him and Atticus Finch- a comparison that would prompt me to break down in tears a couple of weeks later. For a long time to come, this will be the image that Umar and Anirban will have in my head- in spite of my differences with much of their political stands, they shall be the ones, in my imagination, who dreamt, of improbable things that none of us (at least me) had the courage to dream about, and who owned up to those dreams. Of course, that’s in my imagination, where everything is rosy, and heroes assume statuses of giant moral proportions. And a couple of days later, when they left the campus at midnight, to be taken into custody and for interrogation, a feeling of immense despair overcame the few scores of people who were there then- what next?? We knew the courts didn’t have enough against them, but the media had done its share. And that worried all of us.

What happened next was amazing. Unlike the case with Kanhiaya, we didn’t get to hear much about these two. The lack of their presence in the collective memory of the nation, as the TV channels did in the case of Kanhaiya. This campus bounced back in articulation of public memory in a myriad of creative ways- daily cartoons were circulated during the evening lectures, installations were put up, sending messages of love to the jailed, posters were pasted, a cartoonist had his work strung around the Ad Block park, which was torn up by someone who didn’t understand satire, and which was resiliently put up again the next day, two massive graffiti of Irom Sharimila and Soni Sori were put up, messages of solidarity drifted from across the country and from different parts of the world, and settled in the branches of the trees near the Ad Block. What was once the haunt of a WiFi-deprived student populace became the site of rebellion, in the most beautiful ways possible.

Winter was ending, and like the Hon’ble Judge remarked in the bail statement to Kanhiaya, spring was in the air. This is the time that usually every JNU students’ Facebook profile photo is usually one the riotous bloom of bougainvillea that lines the campus roads. Instead, most of us had some picture related to the movement as our profile pictures, and #standwithJNU as a post-script to most of our status updates. Instead of long walks on Ring Road, or sitting on the rocks of PSR, JNU saw massive gatherings at Freedom Square every evening at 5. The nationalism lectures, magnificently co-ordinated by the teachers, delivered by scholars and academicians, were learning experiences of the sort that happens only in an open space, and that too, in conditions such as these- the unity in the destinies of the people all around the world, and across time, who have been subject to actions like the ones that we were witnessing; the multiplicities of the ideas of nationhood, patriotism, language, community, were deliberated upon; the various renderings of histories that make it possible for rulers to tweak narratives in their favour were revisited. Not just scholars, workers from unions who were fighting for their rights also spoke to us, reaffirming that the fight was one, that struggles couldn’t be completed in isolation. Writers and artists, reeling under similar repressions, enlightened us with their versions of the story, suddenly becoming personal trysts rather than far away incidents of returning awards and honours. Impromptu songs were sung, plays were enacted, slogans were shouted. As night fell, hungry swarms of students, wrapping the thinnest winter clothes around them walked back to their hostels, the last vestiges of the day’s slogans still reverberating in the air above the campus. Kanhaiya’s and Umar’s speeches were remixed into songs that were quickly made into ringtones, and danced to. Each night in the mess, more news would await us- of hope, or of more fear. Sometimes after dinner, one would walk back to Ad Block, knowing that there was nothing happening there. But suddenly, in the midst of all this chaos, the campus had become a ground for camaraderie- people united by a struggle could strike up conversations while waiting for tea at any of the dhabas in the campus. A click of the tongue or a passing look of disgust after reading about the latest atrocity was shared between strangers, who recognised immediately in the other a comrade. This spirit of comradery was manifest not just among students; teachers and students became one in the defence of their institution. In the evenings, we sat next to our professors. Again, in a spirit that signifies JNU, the breaking of hierarchies did not mean a lack of respect; it meant that we believed in dialogue, and disagreement, even with those who teach us. When the teachers made a human chain around the students to prevent anyone from attacking us, what was then obvious was that a unity was being forged- something that any Harry Potter reader would declare to be absolutely essential in any war.

The courts took their time eventually, one seemingly mundane day, when everybody knew that the bail pleas of both Umar and Kanhaiya were being heard, but no one expected a positive result, SMSes were circulated. They were free to come back to the campus. Bail granted. At night, after the usual victory parade, the two were given a massive reception in Azaadi Chowk. They spoke of jail, and imprisonment, and the perceptions of the police about why they were in there in the first place. The humour kept us laughing, but we also knew that this was just a silver lining. The question of intolerance and lack of debate remained. Later that night, much past midnight, students gathered in hordes around the campus and sang songs of jubilation. The fear that had enveloped the campus for a few weeks was lifted. Holi, which was just a few days away, came early to JNU. All celebrated. Well, mostly all. The very next day, Umar presented at a History conference in his department and Anirban resumed his work on his PhD.

A semblance of normality returned.

The evening lectures continued-now the theme shifted to azaadi- freedom. The numbers slowly started dwindling. The semester was ending, and the campus was limping back to its usual academic activities- term papers, submissions, and exams. The activists remained there. Debates continued on Facebook. Kanhaiya was shot to national fame- his fellow party comrade was even nominated (and later elected) to the Kerala Assembly. With the release of the report of the university enquiry report on the February 9 incident, things took another turn. Students were unjustly punished, and this time, a group of students chose the time-old tradition of protest in JNU- hunger strike. A large number of students started striking, joined by teachers. The ABVP students also striked, claiming that one of their members was wrongfully being punished. YouTube Hanuman Chalisas competed with the voices of students singing We Shall Overcome. A lot more happened- the VC making an escapade from an academic council meeting, flaring up of tempers between students who fought together just a few weeks back, and the court ordering the report to be put on stay. For most of us, we remained mere spectators to all this, and read the updates on Facebook.

It seemed like the movement as we knew it in the first few weeks was over.

Long marches, painted faces, placards help up by aching arms, human chains, and slogans being shouted into the night- these remain wisps of memory that unsettle and make one proud when one lies in bed, in the early hours of the morning. The movement may have ebbed, but we know that the threats that triggered this would always be present. And when such intolerance would claim its dues from dreamers again, we knew that we were capable of fighting back- because this revolution will keeping passing through the room of my life forever.

The present runs into the past
Now and then become entwined, playing games within my mind
Like the embers as they die.