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If you had told me a few years ago that I would drive on the road to Sabarimala, I would not have believed it. It's a place accessible only to men for centuries. We would see them, the pilgrims, in black lungs, barefoot. The people of our neighborhood were starting to wear black and we knew that they would soon make the pilgrimage for men to Sabarimala in green Kerala.
But the Supreme Court changed everything on September 28th. The doors of the sanctuary would be open to all women, regardless of their age. Not just those under 10 or over 50 years old.
(Or so it was thought.)
It was a big news. A change in a secular tradition, an attempt to say that women should be allowed everywhere.
(But we are still not.)
We left to cover this development, my cameraman Kumar and myself. We all know that emotions are strong when it comes to these deep beliefs. The best of us are resisting this change. We anticipated the resistance to this movement. On Tuesday – we saw that cars and buses carrying women to Sabarimala were arrested.
When I arrived from Thiruvananthapuram, I already felt cautious enough to advise Kumar – a great soul who would want the whole world to understand – not to enter a debate if we were arrested. Then, we learned that women journalists had reached the Nilakkal base camp in front of us.
The feeling of unease began to take root in a very real threat.
In Nilakkal, we saw a crowd shout slogans, the police at his side. A reporter from a Kerala channel called me apart. "Take off the press stickers from your car," he advised. "And the logo of your microphone, and the best is not to go that way," he added, to indicate to the crowd.
We saw a line of female officers come down and Kumar and I rushed past them to do a "prerec" – a recording that would be broadcast later.
We found ourselves near the place where the women journalists had been attacked. More people have advised us to turn around for our safety.
We were doing.
As we headed for a place where we could feed our images, we met the journalist who had been attacked and got into a car. A hug for her, making sure she was fine.
We found a place at the top of the hill where we received a small signal to feed our images. A police officer advised us to move. "They throw stones," he said. A little later, we heard the roar of a crowd. Ambulances with howling sirens passed us.
We found ourselves alone – at the top of a hill – without knowing what would happen next. Not sure if we were safer there. Or if it would be better with people around. Some devotees came running on the hill. We stayed where we were. Then we saw police armed with riot shields and helmets, looking for protesters in the bushes. Has another prerec shown all this?
In the absence of sufficient signal for a live report – and a live report request for our 20-hour bulletin, we decided to leave Nilakkal and go down until we have a sufficient signal.
It was dark, we were driving in the mist. The darkness of the forest when I looked out the back window of our cab was huge. I lowered the window to enjoy the primitive beauty, fresh air and dark haze. There were almost no more vehicles on the road.
Then we saw some lights – and a bus whose windshield was broken. A good backdrop for talking about the tension day. So we made a U-turn towards Sabarimala and we stopped on the side of the road.
In one second, we were surrounded by 10 to 15 men. Somehow, I'd sometimes instinctively rolled the window. They interrogated us aggressively. I looked in the car and saw myself. Started to hit the window, the side of the car. Scream in Malayalam. And two words in English. "No ladies."
True to his habit, Kumar tried to explain to them. I said, in English I think, – "We'll turn around, we will not stop, let's go."
I asked Kumar to stop explaining. But the men shouted and asked for explanations. They shouted at our driver. & # 39; You are malayali. You are from here You know that you are not supposed to bring women to this place. "
No more screams. A violent blow on the window where I was sitting. A feeling of unreality.
They did not let the car move forward. Do not let us reverse the situation.
Our young driver remained calm and calm under considerable pressure and abuse. He slowly (oh so slowly) turned the car around and we went away. Again alone, we three in the car, continuing in the dark.
With the darkness behind.
As a female journalist, I do not think it's safe to climb the hill to do a story tomorrow. And I hate feeling like that.
Maya Sharma is editor-in-chief of NDTV in Bengaluru
Disclaimer: The opinions expressed in this article are the personal opinions of the author. The facts and opinions contained in the article do not reflect the views of NDTV and NDTV assumes no responsibility with respect to these.
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