So, blame it on the Rs 90 drama! Imagine this: I am travelling from Kurla to the University in an auto, a usual Rs 30 ride per seat. But nah, feeling fancy that day, I opt for the solo ride. Just as I approach BKC, I spot a lady running late for work, so being the knight in a not-so-shiny auto, I offer her a ride. The driver didn’t object. Fast forward to the showdown when we get off – I refuse the lady’s money because of Mumbai spirit you see! But the auto guy suddenly flips back and demands Rs 180! He felt ‘cheated’ because he wanted to charge her separately for the ride, he says. After a heated argument, I reluctantly hand over Rs 90. I am fuming in anger at this point.
Then, in the middle of my lecture, I spot a tweet from a local paper, asking if anyone has faced the dadagiri (hooliganism) of the auto drivers in Mumbai. Without missing a beat, I shoot them an 800-word email rant. I felt so relieved. The very next day, a journalist calls me for a quote. Seeing my rant in print, I felt like a tiny superhero on the streets. And on that very day, destiny (or maybe just good timing) brought YKA’s post about a civic journalism training program into my life. It was like the universe handed me the keyboard and said, ‘Go, make some noise’!
An email lands in my inbox, screaming, ‘Your application stood out of 250+ applicants. Congratulations, you are selected for the WTP.’ And just like that, it begins – sleepless nights and the writer’s training program. But the drama is not ready to take a backseat. Just when I thought I would enjoy this moment a bit, I got diagnosed with dengue in the most unconventional way possible.
Picture this: I am literally drenched in rainwater, and I spot a man on the ground, struggling to stand up. His hands are smeared with muddy water, a reflection of the limited options for individuals with disabilities. We went our ways. But Illness has this weird way of making you ponder life. Even with loved ones around, you feel mentally drained. My mind keeps going back to that image of the man.
And you know what hits me? If my first pitch had not been about public transport accessibility for persons with disabilities, I might not have even noticed him. That experience became my first story: In Maharashtra, Persons With Disabilities Wait For Their ‘Amrit Kaal’
Life takes a full circle a month later: I’m waiting for an auto, and there’s a person with a disability and their caregiver grappling to get a ride. They look at me in the eye and say, ‘apahiz ke liye bhi nahi rukhtey’. I am on the verge of tears, but instead, I go up to the beat officer, demanding action. Despite my request, he refuses until I take it to Twitter. Within minutes, the official handle of the Mumbai traffic police responds.
That day, I felt like I aged a hundred light years. It was my first step in channelling anger over injustice into words. I am fighting as a citizen journalist for another citizen, all ignited by the impact of that first story. Firsts are always special.
Just to rewind a bit – I was never the confrontational type. In school, I was the introvert lurking in the green room, learning music, and college was no different. I had this silent pact with myself, making peace with the culture of hushing up against authority and never standing up to those bully teachers.
Then came the second story. As I sat down with the medical students, things took a personal turn. Their tales resonated with me, hitting close to home. The subtle intimidation tactics used by some teachers and the havoc it wreaked on students’ lives struck a chord. I questioned myself: Could I ever gather the courage to challenge my teachers when they are in the wrong? Maybe today I can.
That thought got me to the second story: Inside the Glaring Mental Health Crisis in Maharashtra’s Medical Colleges
The third story was about the glue traps and poisons impact on wildlife and humans. It is the kind of issue that’s often brushed aside. It is considered a minor issue because, let’s face it, who is really bothered enough to document such cases? For years as a volunteer with RAWW, I had hustled to compile the data that would finally grab some media attention. When the YKA editor urged us to tell a story close to our hearts, ‘Wildlife Week: Glue Trap, Rat Poison Is Killing Both Humans & Animals’ was the result.
But the challenge begins 4th story onward. The program pushed me into writing stories that might not scream ‘click me!’ to the youth. And that is when self-doubt stepped in. Why would someone my age care about sand mining? Will I even read such a story? What is the hook that would get my interest? In Story 6: Is Maharashtra Govt Ramping Up Infra Projects Via Sand Mining Policy? I wore my reader hat and forced myself to care about the issue. Connecting the dots of a larger narrative already out there in the public domain proved to be brain cardio. And story 7 – the one about elected representatives, currently doing final edits.
By the fifth story, I found my voice. I realized that stories will resonate with the reader only if I care enough to give them the required attention and handle them with sensitivity. Words can bring change. Not immediately. Maybe after hundreds of years. But they do. Either in texts or in public conscience. They stay. I reported about the struggles of the young menstruators. Something that I experience every freaking month. Did my story 5 ‘The State Of Menstrual Hygiene In Maharashtra Schools Is A Bloody Injustice’ bring any change? No. And I do not feel bad about it either. But I did my job as a citizen to report it.
One of my last stories talks about the caste-discrimination on the IIT-Bombay campus. Still under edit, the story was an eye-opener. My conversation with students from the Dalit, Bahujan, and Adivasi communities battling mental health issues and caste-based discrimination triggered me to the extent that I had to pull myself back from getting too involved with the story. Seven drafts later, nothing seems convincing enough in words to equate with the conversations I witnessed.
The casual jokes on someone’s caste, questioning their identity through their academic ranks, all this by fellow students? Listening to the students from these communities losing hope that nothing will change was disheartening.
I can go on and on and on, but these seven stories have changed me as an individual. I found my voice as a citizen. From cribbing about travelling through crowded local trains, to now engrossed in the lives of my fellow Mumbaikars fighting for their survival – What a journey!
The author was a part of the 2-month-long My City Writers’ Training Program from Sept-Oct, 2023.