Blood, gore, dead bodies are regular sights for city or crime journalists irrespective of any city in any country. But nothing prepares you for blast coverage. When the Mumbai train blasts took place on 11th July, 2006, I was a year old in the journalism profession. Being a city reporter in Mumbai working for a reputed English news channel, my stories would include anything from the ridiculous Mahim sweet water story where believers thought it was some godly miracle for the sea water to turn sweet to night shift stories of gruesome accidents and heart breaking acts of suicides. It was all in my job profile. One day I would be covering a story where dogs were used to heal children with neurotic ailments, the next day I would be visiting the by lanes near Mohammed Ali Road to track some clue about the Memon family. It was part and parcel of being a journalist and I loved all of it- the excitement, the rush, the headlines my stories would make. My parents on the other hand were worried sick. Being a pampered and protected daughter in the family, my career choice and the day-to-day incidents I narrated to them made them anxious all the time like any other parents.
It was a Tuesday. Work as usual. The day was generally slow with not too many stories for people to do. So, by five in the evening, most had left the office. I was planning to leave soon. Then there was a call from one of our colleagues. He was shaken, howling and simply not making sense. All we could understand was the words ‘blasts’, ‘dead bodies’ and ‘train’. We kept asking him if he was alright and that he should calm down and tell us where and when exactly it happened and while all this was going on, constantly monitoring other channels. It is almost like an immediate reaction for TV journalists to do this. As soon as we see the possibility of a story, especially a breaking story, the first thing we do is check if any other channel has got it. However, we were quick to realize the importance of the situation and recorded a phone interview (phoner) with him. Yes, we broke the story. He was going to be a hero in the organization for some time now. I forgot to mention that apart from me, a studio director and 2 or 3 entertainment reporters were present in the office at the time.
With no senior colleagues in the office, we were being directed on the phone by our Delhi office and the Editor-in-Chief. I was suddenly asked to leave with a camera person. Me a rookie. All this happened within 7 to 8 minutes. Frankly the only feeling I had at that time was that of excitement. We left immediately. My camera person instructing me repeatedly to stay calm and no matter what, be ready. Be ready, for what, I had no clue. I was just going to interview some people like every other day, start building the script from the word go, come back and edit and put it on air. The words- ‘be ready’, I must have heard at least a million times till we reached Mahim station in 20 minutes, walking. The roads were already motionless.
As we approached the station, I saw smoke, people rushing out screaming. One last ‘be ready’ from my cameraperson and we entered the platform. I think I stopped breathing for a while. All I could hear was a loud throbbing sound in my head, so loud that I thought I could go deaf. What happened next is something that I will never forget or wish to forget ever.
My cameraperson put his hand on my shoulder and said in Hindi, “Kuch socho mat. Aage chalo. Bas. Be ready.” (Don’t think. Move forward. Be ready) Now I understood what he meant. But I could not move. I wanted to run back but he held me so tight with one hand on my shoulder and one hand holding the camera. We moved forward, struggling amidst the panic stricken, screaming crowd coming from the opposite side. Some were running while asking us to leave. But we had an assignment to finish. I saw many injured lying on the platform and near the tracks bleeding, skin burnt and peeling off, some were too shaken to realize that they were badly injured and were not only stripped naked but also stripped off their honour and safety. Some had parts of their body missing; some simply yelling out of shock, some dragging other injured only to realize that the person is dead. Some were leaving them halfway down the tracks to help others who were alive. My camera person was busy shooting all the while, cursing. Being a fresher I did not have control over my emotions. Tears started rolling down my cheeks. I took out my phone and started typing a message for my closest friend and a journalist like myself- “I hate journalism.” The only SMS I received for the next 4 hours was from her. It came to me almost immediately after I sent the above message. It read exactly the same.
But as the saying goes- ‘You gotta do what you gotta do’, I started my assignment, interviewing people, helping the camera person shooting and recording the right shots- not too disturbing, yet explanatory. There was chaos all around and I was trying to make some sense out of it to proceed with my work. That day was the longest day ever. After reporting for six hours we went back to office. I remember when I walked in people in the office started clapping. Apparently, my camera person and I were the first to send the footage and interviews from ground zero that were being used continuously. But all this did not matter to me at that time. I was angry at what had happened and what I had seen and experienced.
Interviewing people especially in a situation and at a time like this is anything but easy. Asking questions while you are standing in the middle of dead bodies and countless injured and lost, trying to balance yourself to avoid stepping on alive or dead bodies, needs great effort. Believe me when I say that what you see on TV is 10 times from the unfortunate reality and it is tougher for the reporter to stand there and state facts and at the same time be careful to filter the description of the scene while suppressing her emotions.
Did I mention that I had not informed my parents all the while as I was caught in all that madness. The networks were jammed and my parents could not get through to me either. When they finally did get through to me, all I said was that I was safe and extremely busy. That was what my parents had to be happy with. This had become the norm later during the Delhi blasts as well. In a way it will not be wrong to say that parents of journalists also undergo some sort of training that they never consciously enrolled for.
Later that night I was asked to go to Bhabha Hospital in Bandra. It was two in the morning. I was not tired at all due to the adrenalin rush. I had started work that day at 7 in the morning. I waited for another journalist friend as I looked on at the injured lying beside the dead. At times it was hard to tell who was alive and who dead. Suddenly a hand started tugging my dupatta. All this while I thought it was a body. I turned at the tug as it was hurting me immensely. I saw a face that was black, with muck or blood or was it simply burnt, I cannot say and the incessant cry of pain I had never heard before. I still remember the sound of it. It still haunts me. I asked the nurse to help only to be snubbed. “Kis kis ko dekhu? Sab ko takleef hai yahan”, (How many people can I attend to? Everybody is in pain here.) I thought she was insensitive but soon realized the truth.
Just like me she was doing her job. What was going inside her head only she can tell and I can tell you it was not very different from what I was thinking or anybody else thinks when a blast occurs.
Being a journalist does not make us insensitive and heartless. I think it makes us more sensitive to our environment and our experiences. I was not the only journalist covering the blasts that day. But when I hear people ridiculing the work of a journalist in these situations with questions such as, how can they ask what they saw immediately after the blast, don’t they understand what the people are going through or it is just another story for them, it makes me angry. Nobody likes to see blood and gore and death and tears out of choice. It is our job and we do it. When stories are not covered, it is very easy to say that the media does not care or they have been influenced. When we cover extensively, we are heartless. Someone recently said that for journalists covering a blast, is just about numbers. (I am guessing the person meant casualty figures). Yes I agree. It is about numbers simply because it shows the impact of the incident. People complain that media is everywhere. Yes we are. We have to. Else you will be the first one to say that we missed it.
When I tried to sleep that night and many nights after that, those images kept flashing by for days. They still do. Hence it is not fair to say that it is just another story for journalists. It is our job and we need to do it. After all what we write and show, you read and see. Incidents take place and we do the dirty job of letting you know about them, fighting our own emotional battles as we cover them. So next time give some credit to this thankless but daring job.