A journalist recalls Delhi detention: A reluctant baton, a press ID ignored, and stranger’s help

It was around 11.15 am on Saturday. My colleague Ashwine Kumar Singh and I were outside the Park Hotel, having just finished recording a video on the Jantar Mantar protests against Chief Election Commissioner Gyanesh Kumar, when his phone rang. It was Anmol Pritam, another colleague, his voice frantic. He and our producer, Anshu, had been detained by the police near New Delhi Railway Station.

We rushed out. No auto driver was willing to take us to the location. Then I spotted a cab about to leave, a passenger already inside. I explained what had happened and asked if he could drop us there.

“No need to request. I am a big fan of Newslaundry. I love what you guys are doing,” the kind stranger said. 

When we reached the spot, we saw a bus full of detainees. Anmol was among them. We asked the police why they had detained a journalist. But they pushed and dragged Ashwine, snatched his phone and abused him. When I intervened, they shouted at me. Then women police personnel dragged me away and shoved me into the bus.

I fell on the floor; other detainees helped me up. Inside, I held up my press ID, repeating that we were journalists. It made no difference. 

We were not the only ones. Nearly 30 journalists have been detained since that day, most of them in Delhi, even after clearly telling police they were members of the press. Many of them were detained on Sunday despite the Supreme Court’s clear directions not to obstruct journalists as they carry out their duties.

How safe are women in police detention?

There is something else that happened on the bus that I didn’t share until recently.

A while after we were shoved into the bus, I realised I was being touched inappropriately. A man standing behind me was rubbing himself against me. It took me a moment to register what was happening. When I did, I turned around, twisted his arm and shouted, “What the hell are you doing?”

Before I could grab hold of him, he ran towards the front of the bus. I couldn't see him again. He may have gotten off the bus. He wasn't wearing a press card, and I don't know who he was or whether he was a journalist.

Why was I put on a bus stuffed with just only three other women, including one policewoman, and 20–25 men in the first place? What precautions were taken to ensure my safety? 

These questions concern the safety of every woman in police detention. They are especially urgent  given the serious allegations women protesters have made about their treatment at the hands of the Delhi Police. 

The baton with pink glitter tape

The bus drove around Delhi. We kept asking where they were taking us. Nobody answered. 

But, between all the mayhem, I found myself having a conversation I hadn't expected. It didn't change what had just happened, but it was a moment that stayed with me.

One of the CRPF personnel had wrapped little pink, glittery tapes around his baton. It instantly made me smile. A baton is a sign of violence, often associated with police brutality. It is supposed to be frightening, intimidating and all of that. But this one was covered with glittery tapes we used in school for arts and crafts. 

I had to keep my phone hidden and had hardly anything to do so I decided to talk to him. I told him his baton looks different from everyone else’s. (In my head I thought - perhaps, a little less intimidating.) He smiled and said, “I have put these tapes to identify it easily.”

That got us talking. 

He told me his company and several others had been stationed in Jammu and were called overnight. We talked about the farmers’ protests and the crackdown by state forces. He said discrimination runs deep within the forces. Two detainees overheard and chipped in. They were Muslims. They said, “We could sense the hatred policemen had for us. They said, ‘What is your name?’ When we told them our names, the policemen didn’t ask further. They just said, ‘Aa jao.’ and shoved us into the bus.”

The CRPF man spoke with pride of the Bangla Sahib management who were giving protesters refuge, and praised gurudwaras for always helping protesters. “One should never raise their hand against someone who is unarmed,” he said, pointing to his baton, and claiming he would never raise it against an unarmed person, a woman or a child. “Bhagwan na kare kabhi chalana pade.” That line stayed with me. 

I remember that sentence because it came in the middle of a day when I had just been dragged to the ground by people in uniform. I had seen colleagues manhandled, phones snatched and journalists treated as though their press IDs meant nothing. There was something so human and warm about hearing it from someone else in uniform.

In the middle of all that hostility, the fact that I found a room for a conversation. And the sheer possibility that a person carrying a weapon might never want to use it. These things will never let me forget that baton with pink glittery tapes.

At the police station

Eventually, we were taken to Chhatrasal Stadium, where the detainees were counted, and then to Adarsh Nagar police station.

The SHO called the Newslaundry journalists inside. By then, our colleagues had reached out to senior police officials. Suddenly, the SHO was trying to “explain” the situation.

“Sometimes, there are difficulties arranging things. They (police) had brought us here because they wanted to take us somewhere safe,” he said.

I asked why journalists had to be detained in the first place. If these “difficulties” were entirely avoidable. There seemed to be no clear answer.

Throughout the day, calls and messages poured in from family, friends and Newslaundry supporters. They checked in on us and told us they were proud of us. At the same time, social media trolls were celebrating. Some said this should have been done long ago. Others wished the police had used us as “speed breakers”.

The contrast was jarring. We live in a world so polarised that even the mistreatment of journalists can become a cause for celebration. 

We were eventually released. We would continue reporting.

Back on the road

On the Safdarjung flyover, I saw a bus driver dancing and welcoming protesters as they ran towards the other side. “Ek kachodi, chaar samosa, BJP par nahi bharosa.” That was the first thing he said to me, and declared that protesters would get a free ride on his bus.

There was something wonderful about the encounter. Since morning, buses had been vehicles of detention. Here was a driver turning his bus into a place of welcome.

I don’t want to romanticise any of this. Being manhandled and detained is not a badge of honour. It is not something journalists should have to endure to do their jobs, and the kindness of strangers does not make police excesses any less serious.

But I keep returning to the small moments from that day:

• The passenger who didn’t make us ask twice.

• The CRPF personnel with pink glitter tape on his baton, who hopes never to have to hit anyone.

• The people who called to check on us.

• The bus driver who turned a political slogan into an offer of a free ride.

There was hostility, yes. There was also solidarity. One did not cancel out the other.

We often talk about independent journalism in terms of institutions, funding, editorial freedom and the business models that keep newsrooms alive. All of that matters. But sometimes its value becomes tangible in the most unexpected places: perhaps in a stranger’s willingness to drive you towards a colleague who needs help.