As journalists make career moves, they start covering what they think are more and more “important” issues. The daily grind of covering courts, traffic jams, roadside dharnas and employees’ agitations is considered the lowly city reporter’s job. But somehow, the real stories are always the stories of the people. This was a motley group of villagers, huddled in front of a Sector 17 sweet shop on the footpath. The dharna had been going on for months, and I had seen their determination during a cane charge by the police.  I sauntered across to them only because I had nothing better to do that day and decided to check out if they had an interesting tale to tell. There are many things I learnt that day, and one of them was that a journo must never ignore that little assignment about a small dharna.

The Indian Express splashed it across seven columns on front page. The photo editor at The Indian Express, Swadesh Talwar, was the first one the next morning to call me and congratulate on a story well told. In the meeting, Resident Editor Vipin Pubby had a good word to say about it.  I spent the day receiving compliments.But my own involvement with that motley group had only begun with that story. Over the next few months, I filed nearly a hundred reports about the progress of their struggle. Clearly they had been wronged. And when finally they won, and got their jobs back, I wrote what was the second part of this story. This too is appended below.  Between the two, over a year had passed. Personally, it was a great education for me. And I am proud of the friends I made from among this group.

Travelling On Footpath Route, And Reaching Nowhere

S P Singh

Chandigarh:

With the job lost, poverty creeps slowly into your budget, affects your children's psyche, but hits you in the guts the day you pull your children out from that fancy English-medium school and ask them to walk down the ramshackle building down the lane also called a school. Soon you know your social stock has gone down, and is plunging fast.

Each of the 470 Panchayat Secretaries who were relieved on October 12, 2001 has personally traversed this distance. Some could not, and lost their mental balance. One committed suicide, but the rest have taken up a new address to fight the battle: Footpath near Sindhi Sweets, Sector 17, Chandigarh.

Irony starts from here. The fight now is against those who were fighting for the sacked men's rights till the last day of the Badal government. Just before CM was prefixed to Amarinder Singh's name, he slammed Parkash Singh Badal right in his constituency Lambi for sacking them.

Line up of those who spoke out for relieved Panchayat Secretaries included Rajinder Kaur Bhattal, Jasjit Singh Randhawa, Sukhjinder Singh Sukhi apart from Amarinder -- all people who now have the power to reverse the decision, but aren't doing much, say the aggrieved footpath-resident protesters.

Determination comes in many forms, one of them the cheap plastic hold-all bags stuffed with a tooth brush, a comb, clothes, a small gutka (copy of holy hymns) and a vow: We shall not go back till we get our jobs back. A poster of martyr Bhagat Singh has been put up – “this is only for our inspiration” – and it seems to be raising the spirits, indeed.

Everyday, that small item in the newspapers about their dharna and fast-unto-death is a little something to show for. Victory eludes, not the perseverance though.

At times, the strong veneer cracks, of course.

Gurdip Singh of Dutaal village in Patiala drops a tear as he tells of the day his daughter Kulvinder stopped going to her `English school' in Patran. With illiterate old parents to support and no land to till, Gurdip's was a dark future, riding a private bus as a conductor could feed three mouths, but then came the bonanza in 1996 when Harcharan Singh Brar's government recruited 10+2 educated youths as Panchayat Secretaries.

“With a Rs 6,000 pay cheque also came a marriage proposal and our social standing jumped up many notches,” Gurdip, now 37, tells. For six years, life brought happiness, two kids and respect among relatives. Till the Badal government showed them the door.

Suba Singh of village Surewala committed suicide after he lost his job. His wife and daughter, born six months after his death, sometimes skip meals.

Tarlok Singh, 27, of Rurka Kalan lost his mental balance for some time, but has now come back to live on the footpath with fellow sacked men. His colleague Ram Pal was not so lucky. Having lost his mental balance, he now shrieks and calls bad names to Akalis whenever he sees someone with a blue turban.

Footpath life opens other vistas of humanity, lost to scribes covering roadside dharnas as a matter of routine. Compassion touches you when the scooter stand boys stop charging jobless agitators any money. Also, when the Sindhi Sweet owner himself offers electricity connection so that protestors can have a fan and light at night.

And some go out of their way. A hair dresser next to the dharna site has lost many clients as scores of village youth spilling out in front of his parlour keep young lasses away. But when he went to shave a senior Punjab government official dealing with the protesters case, he availed the opportunity to tell him of their plight. Villagers from nearby Patiala villages are sending langar every day.

Farag Panchayat Sakatar Union secretary Des Raj has many such stories to tell – of officials who sympathise, of ministers who call up to help in getting passes to enter the secretariat. But the best are about times when the fight was other way round.

“Before the elections, we were fighting for Congress. I can't remember how many Akali Dal's rallies we disturbed in Shahkot, Moga, Mansa, Sunam, Ghanaur, Lehra Gaga etc because we had faith in Congress’ promises. The lathis that rained upon us – “and police had special instructions to teach us a lesson” – are hurting only now,” Des Raj said.

Paradoxically, the apparently fruitless pursuit is what has been keeping the doors of hope open. “Today too, Punjab Congress chief (H S) Hanspal has called us. A group has gone to meet him. Something may happen,” choruses a group.

Back home, Gurdip's daughter still eyes the English school she passes by every day. She is saving her tie, and the blue skirt. And prays that she does not outgrow her new shoes before her father goes to office again.

September 20, 2002

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