Nistula Hebbar: From wimp to shrew, it's been busy

MY WEEK

SUNDAY
At 10 pm on Sunday night, I found myself along with 90 other Delhi-based journalists stranded at Charbagh station in Lucknow without a confirmed ticket for Delhi. BJP party officials, on whose invitation we had made the journey to Lucknow, were desperately working out a way for all of us to board the train. Chaos reigned for over half an hour, with everyone from BJP president Rajnath Singh to Ravi Shankar Prasad being called up and yelled at by irate journalists. I'm sorry to say that I did not join the melee, still debating whether I needed to add my measly two cents worth to the fight. A BJP MLA from Bihar, who had, in characteristic neta fashion occupied 12 berths on the train escorted three of us, women journalists, to the prized seats. "Aap itni darpok hain, patrakar kaise ban gayin (you are such a coward, how did you become a journalist), he asked me, for failing to "claim" the seats we wanted. The relief of being homebound in comfort made me keep silent, but the words dug in deep. Was I really a collaborator to the "cause" for being scared to board a train without a ticket?

MONDAY AND TUESDAY
Ripples of Sunday night's mismanagement continued to be felt in Delhi. At all times, unfortunately, I was held up by the organisers as one of the "good" journalists who "understood" the plight of the organisers and had kept quiet. Needless to say, my own journalistic fraternity began viewing me as a wimpy Judas type character. Was I really one? An existential dilemma if ever there was one.

WEDNESDAY
With a distance of three days, the events of Sunday fortunately receded from public memory, only to be replaced by Mamata Banerjee's hunger strike. Over steaming samosas, I wondered how she could possibly stay hungry for so long especially in winter, the season for which the phrase "holiday fat" was invented, and, of course, how much weight she had lost. Superficial! cried out the vegetable dye kurta brigade. Suddenly, I became the fence sitter who was the scourge of causes. I slunk by feeling suitably chastened and seriously in doubt over my worth as a "serious" intellectual.

THOURSDAY
It was a lovely winter evening at Rashtrapati Bhavan, the press corps was waiting for several NDA leaders to leave after their meeting with President APJ Abdul Kalam over Mamata Banerjee's fast. As we pressed against the ropes holding us back from the quotes we needed, a stray insulting remark about reporters, from the President's security staff lit off a fuse in me. Red in the face, the previous week's accusations ringing in my ears I raged against the security personnel; my previously aggressive colleagues tried to calm me down but I was determined to prove that I was no pushover. The conclusion of the fight could not have been happier for me, with the security guard apologising for the bad behaviour. Hurrah! I had got my groove back.