A reporter’s notebook

On June 17, at 4.15 pm, 15-year-old Sushma (name changed) walked to Kamasin block police station, in the Banda district of Uttar Pradesh, and lodged an FIR. She accused her 40-year-old father of rape. For the last three years, Brajesh Kumar (name changed) had assaulted Sushma, threatening to kill her if she didn’t comply. When she sought refuge with her relatives, he would haul her back, beat her and rape her. He had raped her earlier that morning as well.

Four hundred kilometres from Banda, the horrific rape and murder of two Badaun cousins in the last week of May brought UP’s law-and-order problems into the spotlight yet again. In a country where a rape occurs every 22 minutes, 10 per cent of rape cases reported are from UP, the third highest. From 2006 to 2012, this number increased by 55 per cent, while the national average saw an increase of 26 per cent. The State accounts for 22 per cent of the country’s kidnapping and abduction cases, and the highest number of dowry deaths. Cases of incest rape in India rose by nearly 47 per cent from 2011 to 2012. And in 98.2 per cent of rape cases, offenders were known to the victims — like in Sushma’s case.

Badaun makes headlines, Sushma’s case would have gone unreported. If not for Kavita and Meera Devi.

A day after the FIR had been lodged, Kavita and Meera — reporters for Khabar Lahariya — turn up at Kamasin block from the district headquarters in Banda, 60km away. They find Sushma’s house locked. Her father is in custody and she has been sent for a medical examination. When we find her cousin loitering outside, Kavita seeks him out.

The third of four brothers of an upper-caste family, Brajesh is a known drunk in the village, notorious for his cussed invective and blatant indecency. “ Rakshas vyakti tha (He was a demon),” says Pawan, his nephew and son of eldest brother Ramakant. He tells us that Brajesh’s first wife died 12 years ago… under suspicious circumstances. Sushma was the second of the first wife’s three daughters. Four years ago, Brajesh married a younger woman. But since last Diwali, she has been in a Lucknow hospital having sustained burns during a prayer ceremony.

“We knew he was an alcoholic, but we had no idea what went on behind those closed doors,” says Ramakant. When Sushma’s cries grew louder, Ramakant simply extended the height of his compound wall. “We didn’t know what to do. He never sent the girl to school. And he would get mad if we tried to interfere,” he says. His wife begins to sob, she says a drunken Brajesh would accost the women of the family, flash them and ask to be sized up. “The police knew him by reputation,” says Pawan. “They came in May and ticked him off.” But the entire family has distanced itself from the case. Sushma went alone to file the report. She was alone when they whisked her away to the Banda district hospital, depositing her after that at the Naari Niketan in Banda.

Yet, weeks after Badaun, there are no television crews or national newspaper reporters in Banda. Only Khabar Lahariya ( KL ), a local weekly tabloid, bears witness. Started nearly 12 years ago by a group of women, KL now has 40 women journalists, sells 6,000 copies every week and circulates in eastern UP, Bundelkhand and Bihar’s Sitamarhi district.

Was there any outrage over Badaun in Bundelkhand? Meera says, “See, Badaun or the Delhi case get talked about when the public takes it up. In Banda, which is one of the most backward areas of UP, there is no such support. We see many such cases that no one reports.” Three months ago, in Mahua block, when a woman went to file an FIR, the police turned on her. “ Usko rape kiya. Uski beti ko rape kiya. Aur usiko jail main daal diya . Nobody wrote about it” (They raped her, raped her daughter and put her in jail), says Meera. The woman is still in custody.

At the Kamasin police station, which is just 250 metres from Sushma’s home, Kavita asks for the Station Officer (SO) DK Mishra, who has just walked in. “More and more women are filing FIRs now,” she says, “But the problem is that nothing happens after charge-sheeting.” In 1973, when the NCRB first published crime data, 2,919 rape cases were registered; in 2012, 24,923 cases were reported. While the reporting of crime has increased, the conviction rates fell from 44 per cent to 24.2 per cent in the same period.

The police have charged Brajesh under Sections 376, 506 IPC, and the Protection of Children from Sexual Offences Act. “He could get a life sentence. If the family presses charges, it could even be death,” says Mishra. Kavita tells him about the father’s notorious reputation. “After consuming alcohol, who knows what a man can do,” says Mishra, whose predecessor was transferred before June 13, perhaps as part of UP Chief Minister Akhilesh Yadav’s reshuffle of IPS officers after the Badaun incident.

“At least this guy (the SO) is doing something,” says Kavita, who adds that the police in the region often try to settle issues outside the thana . “Everyone tries to turn the victim into the perpetrator,” says Meera. In cases they have seen over a decade, families have discouraged women from filing complaints; the police has discouraged them from registering FIRs; and when they insist, these women come to be seen as the problem.

Being a woman journalist in eastern UP is not easy. It requires immense fortitude and simple courage. Meera (28), who joined KL nine years ago was their youngest recruit at the time. She was married at 16, Kavita at 12. They are childhood friends. Meera completed a BA from Jhansi in 2006; Kavita (32) has had no formal education. Both of them have children. When Meera’s daughter calls her, she gently chides her. “You know I am working on the field, I will be late.”

In the initial years, their families imposed strict codes. “We were only allowed to wear sarees, no matter the discomfort. We were asked to come home before sunset, no matter where we were. They didn’t like us travelling to places. Yahaan bhi khap hai ,” says Kavita. In archive photos of KL , Kavita is clad in sarees, pallu draped modestly around her shoulders, much like her teammates. Today, she wears a bright blue kurta, with the dupatta thrown aside, and white sneakers. The reporters travel extensively in the region. Last week she was chasing Balkharia, the latest menace in dacoit-infested Bundelkhand. Before that she was reporting from Faizabad. Every month, she arrives in Delhi for editorial meetings. On production days, they work late. For the last decade, KL reporters have hitched rides, hiked on foot and cycled in sarees to villages in Chitrakoot and Banda to break stories of dowry deaths, murders, rapes and dacoity. And in the pursuit of these stories, they have transformed from homemakers into daredevil reporters.

When KL started out, they would often receive threats. People in power questioned their articles, bigger papers would ask them to lay off their turf. In 2004, KL reported on a dowry death in Manikpur in which a local sarpanch was involved. The mainstream papers had steered clear of it and KL’s reporter was threatened. “But we always had evidence. And we carry the stories that others don’t,” says Kavita. Government departments would often refuse to share information. “I would go every day and ask for information, till they gave it to me,” says Kavita, who started off with KL’s precursor, a single-page, handwritten wall newspaper called Mahila Dakiya , which ran from 1993 to 2000.

They had to deal with the families of their reporters who didn’t understand the job. Women would often join and leave when their families frowned upon their work. “We held workshops, we met the families. It was an uphill task but we convinced them. Now, we have young girls eager to join,” says Kavita. Despite the threats, both Kavita and Meera love their jobs. “ Itna pichda hua praant hai (This is such a backward area), it is only here that I can talk to people, administration and government. We expose problems and we follow up on the solutions,” says Meera.

While one copy of a vernacular paper is read by at least four persons, a single copy of KL is read by 10 or more. In Chitrakoot and Banda, where KL sells 1,500 copies, the reporters double as the paper’s agents. KL’s readers are loyal and are now as empowered as their reporters. Week after week, readers — a majority of whom are women — write in, commenting on issues and questioning articles. KL’s most dependable sources are often its readers.

Outside the Kamasin police station, a small group from Sardhua village has gathered. SO DK Mishra holds an informal court. On June 15, Kamala, a 22-year-old Dalit girl from their village was set on fire by her husband for dowry in Pachhahan village. Her younger siblings, who were visiting her, left that afternoon to return to Sardhua. “He was very violent. He wanted gold ornaments,” says Kamala’s sister. But, even as Kamala’s parents were making their case, the SO was advising them against one. “He is telling them to make a deal,” says Kavita, “They haven’t even examined the house, haven’t even met with the in-laws.”

At Pachhahan village, we find that Kamala’s husband Umesh is on the run. The mother-in-law and aunts are taking care of her two daughters — aged three and 10 months. Inside Kamala’s kitchen, a haystack lies untouched by the fire. Next to the stove an empty bottle of mitti ka tel (kerosene), dying embers and a half-burnt mattress lie strewn about. The in-laws claim it was an accident. They say there were many fights and screams, but it wasn’t for dowry. But Kamala’s mother says, “She was burnt from waist down. He rolled up a cloth or something into a ball and the fire ran down her limbs.”

On the outskirts of Baberu block, Meera points to the Kailashpati Inter College for Women. It is the site of another story that KL plans to work on. Shut now for summer break, two liquor shops stand erect on either side of the college building. Less than 500 metres from the gates, men crowd the theka looking for their fix. “For the women studying here, it is not just an annoyance. It is a convenient location for harassment. Once the college reopens, we will do a story. A few girls might talk to us,” says Meera.

The road from Kamasin to Banda is a treacherous one. On a particularly nasty stretch the speedometer is stuck at 10km/hr. When we see the PWD archway wishing one Aapka safar mangalmay ho (May your journey be pleasant), Meera remarks at the irony. When we spot a public bus, with people perched on the top, she says, “This is how we travel. But we avoid the roof.” A KL reporter clocks 30-40km every day and 100km on others. They often start work at 9am and finish at 10pm — at their own risk. When the car halts next, I get out to stretch my legs. Kavita shouts from behind the boot, “Don’t come here. I am taking a leak.” This is the third such pit stop. The fields are shorn of crop and the roads are bare. Back in the car, Kavita asks me, “Don’t you need to go?” Abashed, I ask her if it’s safe. Weren’t the Badaun cousins going to the fields for the same purpose? Wasn’t sanitation also a major problem? “We are in a car today. On most other days, we are travelling in those buses. There is no option. There are no public toilets, no hand pumps,” says Meera. “And I can’t control it,” pipes in Kavita.

What has changed in this region in the last few years, I ask. Very little, says Meera. Once in a while there is a decent district magistrate, a good cop or a helpful healthcare worker. Women have not made great strides professionally. “They do all the work in the fields but little else. If you want a job, families will tell you to become a teacher or a nurse. Not a journalist,” says Kavita. Alcoholism has risen in the last three years. “And since the BJP won from Banda, there has been a visible rise in crimes against Dalits,” says Kavita, who is from the community and makes no secret of the fact.

What would they be doing if they weren’t journalists? Kavita snaps, “I don’t even want to think about that.” For now there are incidents to report, officials to convince, women to be heard and a region to be revealed — one article at a time.

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