The uneasy decisions

A short trip to Chhattisgarh in February meant many things. A return to the kind of reporting I yearn for. The pleasure of seeing activists of the soil work - people who grew up in the small town they now work in don't think twice about barging into the collector's office to get some attention to an issue, because the latter was a school junior, or used to write love letters to his sister. But most of all, the field trip was a reminder of the churning in the country today, the tumult of decades that has gone unseen by most, the agony of plans unraveling for millions without notice or conversation, the hoarse voices of protest.

Distant, I tried to be. I had to, so that I could ask myself that question: how will things change, how will we get more electricity, better roads, better infrastructure, how will our needs be fulfilled if something doesn't give? It is not trite to ask this, of course, but often, this question is asked only so that the answer justifies the political decision of the day. If this question is really asked, it is clear there are no easy answers, as there should not be. It should not be easy to decide to evict someone, or equate their life's only asset and security to a mere piece of property. It should not be easy to mow down a forest and then build a bridge for elephants. If we truly care about our future, these decisions must be the last resort. Even then, they must be deliberated upon, agonised over, thought out rationally, predicting real long term consequences.

Women farmers say NO to the expansion of a coal mine in Kusmunda, Chhattisgarh, that will render them landless

When I speak to people (not politicians) about ethnic or caste difference, when I hear hate - mild or virulent - I feel dread, helpless dread about the nature of human relationships, and the endless cycle of mistrust, of the emotional need for brandishing difference. The trip to Korba and Raigarh filled me with dread too, but it is somehow not helpless. The ideas here are tangible - their corrosive effect on our lives is measurable, and should make us smarter. I was in Chhattisgarh only four days, but land rights, tribal rights, mining, environment protection, and their complicated interaction with politics and development has become a new frontier to learn about.

Bursting with what I heard and saw, I wrote two stories: for Al Jazeera America on how environment protection is being sidelined in India today, and for Yahoo! Originals, why exactly people are protesting the moves to acquire land from them for industry.

Second skin

Unveiling.... the India cover of my book, from HarperCollins:

Trouble over

The past year was a whirlwind of words and places. The previous four were spent in the trance of reporting. For five years, I have been working on my book - it is my first, but feels like the only, ever. I have maintained a guarded silence about it, afraid it would go away, disappear, or exhaust itself if I spoke about it. But those I interviewed, people I consulted, and a handful of friends knew how much it consumed me. 

It is now almost ready, with its powerful image on the cover, to be shared with readers I tried hard not to think about throughout the process. The Seasons of Trouble: Life Amid the Ruins of Sri Lanka's Civil War.

From October 2014 onwards, it can be bought in stores and online. Until then, it remains a proof copy on my desk.

Rust

Some days, the red of the earth and the piercing arrow of sunlight can turn the mind in directions it felt afraid to run in, imprisoned as it was by doors and clocks and pressure cooker whistles. Here, the questions float in and out, the answers refuse to come, but what joy there is in sinking into the cool fluid bed of not knowing. It is the absence of person that is the magic. To think all it took was breeze from a window, and the thrill of indecisive rain clouds to stretch time, to make time seem irrelevant to a moment.

Breakfree

To leave Bangalore and its gentle high-altitude love, and to be in a mega city that screamed CAPITAL and many other obscenities at me, was to feel reclusive in a way I never thought possible.

And then, to cut the long story short, I found Holi. On one sunny terrace in 2009, with friends I did not yet love, with strangers that wielded grabby hands, with the bright orange of genda phool and technicolour bhang, with an insatiable hunger for dripping sweet gujias, I hurtled towards ribaldry.

With its uninhibited physicality, loudness, wooziness, showiness, a festival that I once kept at a safe distance (hated), shook me up till I was sitting with flowers around my neck and listening to the crescendo of Piyush Mishra’s Aarambh hai Prachand. The Beginning is Fierce. It is Delhi that I always think Holi introduced me to, but really, it taught me the freedom of being indelicate.