There are protests.. and then there are protests. It's not every country that can do a Dandi March

IT WAS 3 o’clock in the morning on Good Friday 2016. We had just got back from picking up the son in Cardiff a good 40 miles away.Yes, there was an explanation — isn’t there always? A Tube strike in London had made the son miss his train to Swansea and he had jumped into the next one only to discover it petered out at Cardiff. We are still trying not to read significant Freudian omens into why the son misses his train/ bus most times he plans to visit us. I don’t think we are going to succeed for much longer.

My eyelids were drooping shut when they were suddenly jerked open by the husband exclaiming, “Oh, tomorrow’s the White Pride March in Castle Square. We must go for it.”

The son moaned from the corner of the sofa where he had been demolishing triple choc cookies and milk. He’s really cute when he’s like that — you know, regressing into babyhood. “Dad, I’m on holiday,” he said weakly. “And in case you hadn’t noticed, it’s already tomorrow. When do we sleep?”

“Don’t be silly,” returned his loving father. “This could be a major historical event. You can sleep later. Where’s my video camera? I must put it to charge.”

The son shot a pleading, chocolate-smeared look at me. “Well, let’s see when we get up,” I said, rubbing my eyes and stumbling bed-wards. But once there, all remnants of sleep vanished from my head, ruthlessly ousted by fears of what a White Pride March might entail. The family has a penchant for reading, and we were morbidly fascinated by the after-effects of all the historical times the Whites had declared their supremacy. Let’s just say a brown skin doesn’t leave much room for manoeuvre in such situations.

Should we really be going? I wondered, turning over for the fifth time. Suppose we were attacked? There would be plenty of policemen there, we’d been told by a friend. But the police would also be white, why would they rush to protect us brown skins? Certainly, no one had protected the Jews. But we’re Aryans, too, was my last thought as sleep finally claimed me, at least the husband and half of the son are….

Morning came all too fast and I woke dutifully along with the husband, mentally girding my loins for whatever the day had in store for us. And so, surprisingly, did the son. As a family, we have a healthy respect for the husband’s alter ego as a news hound. Even though it has led us down the path to disaster several times, but those stories will keep for another time.

When we were in Delhi, the husband stayed on standby mode until four newspapers and a corresponding number of cuppas had been consumed.I learnt early on in our marriage that “newspaper time” was a good time to slip something past the husband, there was no fear of him actually paying attention.

Fast forward to Swansea and the only thing that has changed is that the newspapers have gotten replaced by the innumerable news feeds to which the husband subscribes.

Earlier this year, when the Kanhaiya Kumar episode unfolded on the Indian media scene, the Jain family was kept minutely up-to-date by the husband with blow-by-blow accounts of all that was happening in Delhi and Hyderabad. As the loving spouse — and the only one in his immediate vicinity — I bore the brunt of his obsession. We listened to KK’s speech so many times that we were chanting it as we strolled up to the Tesco: “Hamein chahiye – azadi!’ Then we listened to the Songify-ed version of the speech. Then the Songify-ed version set in dubstep. While we’re on it, what is dubstep and why does it exist?

The nights were taken over by the husband and the son engaging in long, heated debates over the phone. I would rather have been watching Tom Cruise in Mission Impossible for the twentieth time, but at least I was not in the line of fire. The only imperative was to nod every once in a while when the husband shot me a look. The husband is not the only one in the family with the gift of tuning out, but don’t tell him that.

“You know what your trouble is, Dad?” said the son after he had been bested in an argument. The lawyer in him turns nasty at times like that. “You want to be out there, in the field, reporting. Why don’t you write an opinion piece about it instead?” This was pulling out the big guns. Nasty. Below the belt. Unfilial. The husband has never been known to do anything until a deadline is beating its drums into his ear.

Which is where we stood when the White Pride March was announced. And, for once, we were all up in timely fashion. This is tougher than it sounds if you take into the calculation the fact that the son’s talent for sleeping is second only to his talent for arguing.

“It’s raining,” I said, looking meaningfully at the son, who was shoving his way into the hoodie that he’s had since he was 18. It was mine for ten years before that. “No camera,” I added.

“We’ll walk,” retorted the husband. It’s only in families that you can have threat, attack and counter-attack in so few words. The husband knew I hated walking.

Well, walk we did. And in the rain. For a full 15 minutes. There were plenty of people in the square and I could feel my blood up its dose of adrenaline for a flight/ fight response anytime it was required. Cops were everywhere, as were… “Why would you bring babies in their prams to a protest march?” I asked. “Why would you bring dogs?” asked the son, for whom dogs are a higher form of creation than babies.

“What is he singing?” asked the husband, who was the only one looking at the lone figure gyrating on the stage in one corner of the square.

“Ha, ha!” chortled the son. “Keep the Nazis off the Street!”

“You mean to say all these people are here to protest against the protestors?” I asked in amazement. “But where are the protestors?”

“There they are,” said someone close by, and, sure enough, there was a surge of people towards the road where the march was to take place.

“Where are the protestors?” I asked again. “Here, climb up here,” said the husband kindly, whisking me up above the armpit level of the general population.

“But, but… there are barely 20 of them there,” I spluttered. “Why are they wearing masks? Are they scared?” This motley group holding a sodden white flag bore no resemblance to the menacing white supremacists I’d seen in my nightmares. The protestors waved their flag weakly and shouted something that was borne away in the rain. The anti-protestors shouted something back. And then the cops escorted the White Pride March back to the station.

“Where was the march?” I asked. Neither man in my life deigned to reply. We walked back home. The husband switched on his computer and images of a packed JNU auditorium echoing to the slogans being shouted filled his screen. “Hamein chahiye… azadi!”

The son shook his head much like a dog and sneezed. “I told you, you would get wet,” I scolded.

‘Well, at least I didn’t take my video camera,” said the husband woefully. The son and I kept quiet. In families, love is sometimes a silent emotion.