"I always thought, it can never happen to me, but..."

It seemed to be a day, which would be exciting and full of drama with the youth of this country taking to the streets as an impromptu protest against the gruesome rape of a 23-year-old girl inside a moving bus in the posh South Delhi area. The historic Rajpath was once again being a witness to history being made in front of the majestic Rashtrapati Bhavan.

From the ramparts of South Block (the place from where majority of mediapersons and photographers were covering the protests) it felt as if there was civil unrest in the country, with the angry and agitated youth on one side and the police on the other side. For us (the media) it was like watching a Tennis match. Once the youth would attack the cops with water bottles, stones, sticks and abuses, then, the cops would respond with a lathi-charge, water-canons and tear gas.

As a photographer, every moment was an opportunity to capture the tense situation depicting the mood of the nation. I prepared myself for a stressful day at ‘office’. However, what I was not prepared for, was a sudden stinging sensation on my medulla oblongata and a black-out for almost 5 whole minutes followed by a huge bump on my head and 3 days of intense pain.

Its one of those things, which you always feel will never to you, unless it actually happens. As a news-photojournalist, I have seen numerous people getting hurt, injured, beaten in various situation and majority of them being victimised for no fault of theirs. But, when on-field, the thought never occurs that such things could happen to you as well.

It was a Sunday morning (my weekly off), when I came to know that violent protests are expected to take place at India Gate. 

I rushed to the ‘spot’ and started ‘shooting’. A couple of hours into the day, I was already crying a lot (thanks to the several tear gas shells fired by the cops on the protesting crowd). All of a sudden, while I was lining up to shoot another picture, I felt a very heavy thud on the back of my head, before I realised what had happened, I had this stinging sensation and I was lying flat on the ground and blacked-out. A splash of water from a fellow-photog brought me back into a world of pain, a huge bump and a very heavy head. A huge piece from a brick was presented to me by a photographer who told me this is the reason why I blacked-out. Looking at the size of the brick, on an impulse my hand automatically covered the back of my head and I sat down.

                           Photog Alwin Singh and Rajat helping me
                                   Photo Credit: Altaf Qadri

                         Photog Alwin Singh, Rajat and Arun 
                                            helping me  
                                Photo Credit: Sumati Mehrishi

While I sat in the milieu, I realised that I had experienced something, which the protestors and the cops had been experiencing for the past few days.

A lesson learnt, now, even though I travel in my car, I carry a helmet everywhere, cause I am not sure when and from where the next snorter would be traveling in my direction.

                                                     

 

                                                     My coverage @DNA newspaper

Human Inferno

What makes a young man set himself on fire? What cause
is worth such a sacrifice when a 27-year-old runs through the streets of Delhi,
slowly burning to death while we watch? In the ten years of my life as a photo-journalist
these are questions that I have never grappled with.

Until today as the images of the young man came
through my shutter and burned itself into my consciousness. For years looking
through a single reflex mirror, playing with light, shutter speed, apertures
and fields of depth have helped me understand the world around me a little
better. But how do I deal with an image of self-perpetrated violence that leaps
out of streets on a mundane day and changes my life forever?

Today was no different as our gang of
photo-journalists began the day, hunting in packs for the image that will
define and justify our attempts to record history through our cameras. Protests
make compelling pictures so when we were told about a group of Tibetan exiles getting
together at the historic Jantar Mantar
we rushed to the spot. As usual the Tibetans were gathering to protest against
the visit of Chinese premier Hu Jintao, who heads to New Delhi tomorrow for the
BRICS summit.

Stock pictures taken I was busy reviewing my images
when suddenly a pall of black smoke seemed to emerge from the crowd at a
distance. In a fraction of a second, my vision saw smoke and fire erupt as a young
man set himself on fire. People setting themselves on fire have been images that
have been caught through time immemorial, defining an age or a conflict for
decades. I had seen images of a young girl, burnt on the streets of Cambodia or
a monk immolating himself on the streets of Vietnam as I learnt my craft years
ago. Somewhere on my consciousness are the images of a Rajeev Goswami burning
himself in outrage against the Mandal Commission.

 But I was
about to click my first shot of a self-immolating person. The next moment I saw
a burning figure in my Nikon frame – a running youth all covered in flames –
from head to toe as if he is made of charcoal.

As he came close, I kept clicking him frame after
frame through my 17 – 35 wide angle lens. Like a ruthless professional my mind
and my body worked in tandem recording the images. The image captured on my camera, in that moment, was far more important that the young man slowly burning away for a lost homeland.

I could not even feel the heat of flames when ran
past, barely a distance of 5 or 6 feet. My left hand was busy setting the zoom
to get the best shot and my right index finger was busy clicking the shutter,
and my legs egging me on to keep pace.

I followed and kept clicking till he collapsed.  As
the crowd gathered and doused his fire my adrenalin levels came down and I
withdrew. I was shooting like a maniac, running after the burning man. The
Tibetans made a path leading to where there man was lying, perhaps now dead. It
was at that moment that I finally saw what I had missed earlier. That here was
a man, more than an image captured in my digital camera. A living, breathing fellow-human
being, now smouldering and still on the ground.

Jamphel Yeshi, 27 years. Why did you have to die? What
will this single act of sacrifice fetch for you or your cause?