I’ve been haunting the corridors of the Supreme Court of India these last couple of months. Thanks to biggie environment cases that were coming to an end. The main ones were about mining in Orissa.
The first time I get into the court, it was a hot, sticky July afternoon and I’ve been plagued by a killer cough. So I get into the press corner which is packed and yet I freeze cos the court has it’s a/c on so high, they are contributing to global warming all by themselves. I guess they need it otherwise the lawyers in those layers of black will die of overheating. And I have keep holding the cough in which only makes it worse. At some point it get so bad that I have to cough and it sounds much louder - a terrible racking kind of cough.
Once everyone settles down, I started the game of trying to actually hear the proceedings. Except for this bigshot lawyer, dr. d, everyone else was mumbling to themselves- even the judges. It was impossible to hear anything. Added to which there was a chap from Reuters who was clueless about the case and kept asking me to explain everything. You’d think you’d do your homework before covering a case!
The last time I went to the court, I couldn’t get in even with a press card so had to enter by the side entrance where this lawyer was waiting for me. And his clerk just walked me through, straight past the gun-toting security. I must say they really protect the court from attacks don’t they? Splendid job, I say.
Saturday, 30 August 2008
Tuesday, 19 August 2008
N. men everywhere…
Going to my aunt’s place is now fraught with dangers. Normally I park my bike in her old apartment complex in Alaknanda and hitch a ride with her to the baarder. But now I think I will brave the maniacs who zip up and down the jungle road with their headlights on high beam.
All this because of the life altering, psyche scarring encounter the last time I picked up my bike from Alaknanda. It was twilight and I was going through my usual routine of fighting with my bike. I always have to kick start it some five times before the engine fires. So anyhow, there I was swearing at the bike when I noticed some chap at the end of the passage walking by. No big deal. Then a few minutes later (I’m still kick starting) he walks back and towards me and serenely strolls past me. And at that single instant I realized what was so odd – his clothes. He was wearing a T shirt. Just a T shirt. And shall we say that he was…ahem… at attention?
Needless to say I renewed my efforts at starting the bike with increasing fervour and sped out of there. I did do my civic duty by telling the security guy about it. Strangely he was rather indifferent. Perhaps he was wondering what the fuss was about. Maybe the chap is resident kook, known to all as that weird wandering naked guy.
All this because of the life altering, psyche scarring encounter the last time I picked up my bike from Alaknanda. It was twilight and I was going through my usual routine of fighting with my bike. I always have to kick start it some five times before the engine fires. So anyhow, there I was swearing at the bike when I noticed some chap at the end of the passage walking by. No big deal. Then a few minutes later (I’m still kick starting) he walks back and towards me and serenely strolls past me. And at that single instant I realized what was so odd – his clothes. He was wearing a T shirt. Just a T shirt. And shall we say that he was…ahem… at attention?
Needless to say I renewed my efforts at starting the bike with increasing fervour and sped out of there. I did do my civic duty by telling the security guy about it. Strangely he was rather indifferent. Perhaps he was wondering what the fuss was about. Maybe the chap is resident kook, known to all as that weird wandering naked guy.
Wednesday, 13 August 2008
Where have all the dead fish gone?
The next day (after recovering from the train ordeal by eating, shivering in bed and watching Namaste London) I went off to Harike, hung with the local forest department range officer, spoke to some locals about the dead fish. Unfortunately for me, there were no dead fish by the time I reached. All that remained was a lingering sewage smell. Where had all the dead fish gone? Eaten every one.
The local populace had either eaten them (yipppeee…free fish! Easy pickings, never the mind the funny gabbu) or they had sold them. Fishing rights are also auctioned on sections of the canals and local fishermen then sell to the concerned contractor who sits in Harike or Faridkot, playing cards. I met a few of them and found that the fishermen had sold them the fish and these fish made their way to the local fish market. Needless to say I was planning to stay strictly veggie on this trip! Some Bihari migrant workers had also eaten the fish and some had fallen ill too.
I also talked to folks in Faridkot and found that the town’s purifies its canal drinking water with due diligence. The operation is outsourced to private companies. The guy there took us around (me and Balle’s alter ego- the Faridkot TOI reporter) the facility. Basically the important machinery were non functional (and this was for at least the past 15 days. Before that the chap didn’t know cos that’s when the contractors were changed) and all they did was to pump it from one tank to another while adding bleach and some other chemicals to it.
The local populace had either eaten them (yipppeee…free fish! Easy pickings, never the mind the funny gabbu) or they had sold them. Fishing rights are also auctioned on sections of the canals and local fishermen then sell to the concerned contractor who sits in Harike or Faridkot, playing cards. I met a few of them and found that the fishermen had sold them the fish and these fish made their way to the local fish market. Needless to say I was planning to stay strictly veggie on this trip! Some Bihari migrant workers had also eaten the fish and some had fallen ill too.
I also talked to folks in Faridkot and found that the town’s purifies its canal drinking water with due diligence. The operation is outsourced to private companies. The guy there took us around (me and Balle’s alter ego- the Faridkot TOI reporter) the facility. Basically the important machinery were non functional (and this was for at least the past 15 days. Before that the chap didn’t know cos that’s when the contractors were changed) and all they did was to pump it from one tank to another while adding bleach and some other chemicals to it.
Saturday, 9 August 2008
Jab we met (my version)…
I ran from the ticket reservation counter at Nizamuddin towards the train shoving people aside and yelling, “hato. Train chhut jayega”. This dramatic Jab We Met scenario was because I had exactly 3 minutes to catch my train to Punjab. And why was I off to the Poonjab?
To look for dead fish. Dead fish in sewage to be precise. My first trip to the Poonjab was all about dead fish that had popped up dead (obviously) in the canals taking water from the Sutlej river. The canals are a source of drinking water for a bunch of villages and towns in two states. So at the confluence of the Beas and Sutlej the river is dammed and water siphoned off into 2 canals. The confluence is also an important wetland and is a wildlife sanctuary (one of the few in the state of no forests). The wetland is called Harike, marked on the map by a hamlet of dhabas.
Now that you have the geography clear (if you are anal about it, you could google), I was off to Amritsar and Harike because this Times of India guy had reported the dead fish from nearby Faridkot town (which drinks the canal water). So off I went to check this out. Since it was all last minute I left early one morning at 5 in the morning for the railway station, reached there with 45 minutes to spare, hoping to get a general ticket, only to find two very long queues. With no prospect of getting a ticket in time, I contemplated just jumping into the train and paying the extra fine for traveling without a ticket. Then I found out that the fine was 10 times the ticket cost. I didn’t think my office would appreciate reimbursing that – certainly the accounts guy would not find dead fish worth it. So instead I tried that age old Indian trick of jumping the line with the added twist of looking like a lost female. That didn’t work either. Then my luck changed…this guy in front of me created a third queue and then suddenly barged into the first queue and got tickets. He had promised to get my ticket too – he was trying for the same train as me. So the next thing I know, he’s turning around and saying run, I’ve got them. And so that started my ‘Jab we met’ moment.
The train journey to Amritsar ranks as one of the worst ones ever. It was blazing hot and the coach was packed and I didn’t eat anything so I was little crazy with the heat and lack of food. Not to mention the fat Punju lady who kindly made space for me on her reserved seat, but insisted on talking to me in Punjabi which I only half understood (the Punjus in the family can take a bow, obviously the proximity has had effect). The journey was so bad that I couldn’t muster the energy to check out the Golden Temple or anything else in the city for that matter. It was all I could do to drag myself to the PCO and call all my contacts.
To look for dead fish. Dead fish in sewage to be precise. My first trip to the Poonjab was all about dead fish that had popped up dead (obviously) in the canals taking water from the Sutlej river. The canals are a source of drinking water for a bunch of villages and towns in two states. So at the confluence of the Beas and Sutlej the river is dammed and water siphoned off into 2 canals. The confluence is also an important wetland and is a wildlife sanctuary (one of the few in the state of no forests). The wetland is called Harike, marked on the map by a hamlet of dhabas.
Now that you have the geography clear (if you are anal about it, you could google), I was off to Amritsar and Harike because this Times of India guy had reported the dead fish from nearby Faridkot town (which drinks the canal water). So off I went to check this out. Since it was all last minute I left early one morning at 5 in the morning for the railway station, reached there with 45 minutes to spare, hoping to get a general ticket, only to find two very long queues. With no prospect of getting a ticket in time, I contemplated just jumping into the train and paying the extra fine for traveling without a ticket. Then I found out that the fine was 10 times the ticket cost. I didn’t think my office would appreciate reimbursing that – certainly the accounts guy would not find dead fish worth it. So instead I tried that age old Indian trick of jumping the line with the added twist of looking like a lost female. That didn’t work either. Then my luck changed…this guy in front of me created a third queue and then suddenly barged into the first queue and got tickets. He had promised to get my ticket too – he was trying for the same train as me. So the next thing I know, he’s turning around and saying run, I’ve got them. And so that started my ‘Jab we met’ moment.
The train journey to Amritsar ranks as one of the worst ones ever. It was blazing hot and the coach was packed and I didn’t eat anything so I was little crazy with the heat and lack of food. Not to mention the fat Punju lady who kindly made space for me on her reserved seat, but insisted on talking to me in Punjabi which I only half understood (the Punjus in the family can take a bow, obviously the proximity has had effect). The journey was so bad that I couldn’t muster the energy to check out the Golden Temple or anything else in the city for that matter. It was all I could do to drag myself to the PCO and call all my contacts.
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