It was the year 2015 and I had freshly emerged from a taxing divorce that had left both physical and emotional scars on me. The silver lining to this painful divorce was that I had rediscovered the profound significance of compassion. This period coincided with the peak of social media, which along with traditional news outlets were flooding with reports on the distressing situation of farmers in India, especially in Maharashtra where farmers’ suicides were making headlines daily.
Having recently gone through my own painful journey, albeit of a different nature, I felt a deep empathy toward the struggles of others. With newfound breathing space and a budding background in filmmaking and editing from creating short YouTube videos, the idea of creating a documentary to shed light on the challenges faced by farmers became a compelling and logical next step.
Following a brief research, I identified the most severely affected regions in Maharashtra. I meticulously mapped out train and bus routes to these areas, packed my camera gear, and promptly booked a flight to India. At that moment, my mind was resolute—I must go, and I was prepared to stake my job for this cause. With the recent events in my life, I had come to a realization—money alone doesn’t guarantee happiness. Despite having money, comfort, and living in one of the world’s best countries, I went through deep pain that left my mind unsettled. I started questioning the value of money. The appeal of chasing a job solely for financial gain had dimmed. Thus, I presented a bold proposition to my manager: either grant me a six-month sabbatical or accept my resignation. Fortunately, my manager agreed to a three-month sabbatical, with the promise of an extension if needed and I was all set to embark on my journey.
Upon my arrival in India, I immediately set about arranging my train travel to my destinations, starting with Nagpur. While booking my train ticket to Nagpur, a distant memory flickered in my mind—a recollection of an old college friend who had, last I knew, achieved the rank of IPS and was stationed somewhere in Maharashtra. Unsure of the specifics, I reached out to him on Facebook Messenger after a hiatus of nearly 13 years. To my surprise, he was stationed in Nagpur. What a serendipitous coincidence! I thought it was a remarkable stroke of luck that I would also have the opportunity to reconnect with an old friend during my travels.
Knowing the demanding nature of an IPS officer’s life, I didn’t expect him to personally come to the train station to greet me. What a delightful surprise it was to see him waiting on the platform even when my train was delayed. As a local celebrity, akin to any other IPS officer, he attracted attention and several people had gathered to greet him. Despite the onlookers, including his bodyguards, I couldn’t resist giving him a bear hug right there. Clad in a weathered T-shirt and jeans, I must have appeared audacious to them. Little did they know, my joy wasn’t just about meeting a respected officer but also reuniting with a friend, with whom I shared cherished and mischievous memories from our college days.
Comfortably seated in his car, he jokingly remarked, “Bear with me; my government car isn’t as spacious as your car in the States.”
Despite the impending ban on red beacons for A-list officers, I playfully retorted, “While my BMW is roomy, it still lacks a red beacon.”
We laughed as we headed to his bungalow, where I presented a bottle of Jack Daniels, setting the stage for an evening filled with reminiscences, shared laughter, and home-cooked food supervised by his wife—an A-list IRS officer herself.
The next morning, after a hearty breakfast, we shared one last cigarette, a ritual from our college days. As we savored the moment, he asked about my travel plans.
“Umm, I don’t have a concrete plan. It’s more of a spontaneous journey. All I know is that I’ll be taking a bus to Yavatmal, spending a couple of days there to assess the situation, and then heading to Nanded, followed by Beed,” I replied.
“I see,” he said, pulling out his phone from his pocket.
“Get me the SPs of Yavatmal, Nanded, and Beed on the phone,” he instructed his secretary.
Unaware of his intentions, we carried on with our conversation, exchanging laughs and reminiscing about our old and amusing times. Moments later, he received a call from the Superintendent of Police of Yavatmal.
“What’s up, buddy? Long time no see. Is your jurisdiction giving you sleepless nights?” he teased.
After a few jests and laughs, he got straight to the point.
“Listen, a good friend of mine is coming to shoot a documentary on farmers’ suicides in your area. Take care of him.”
A few moments later, the SP of Nanded was on the line, and the same conversation ensued. Finally, he spoke with the SP of Beed. The entire dialogue with the three Superintendents unfolded in the time it took us to finish our cigarette. All he had to convey to them was a simple “Dekh Lena,” roughly translating to “Do what is necessary.” or “Take care of him.”
Then he instructed his bodyguard and driver to drop me off at the bus station. Though I resisted his offer, but he insisted and persisted. He had already done so much, way more than I had expected and I was feeling guilty about taking any more favors from him.
Arriving at the bus station in a top officer’s car, accompanied by a bodyguard wielding an AK-47, I naturally became the focus of onlookers. The bodyguard courteously guided me onto the bus bound for Yavatmal, advising the bus conductor to “take care” of me as I was the guest of “bade sahab”. The conductor refused payment for the ticket, and passengers stared in curiosity, puzzled by a casually dressed person emerging from a high ranking officer’s car boarding a rundown bus. He only accepted payment when I threatened to disembark unless he took the fare. His curiosity was satisfied only after I clarified why a disheveled person emerged from a top cop’s car. The entire episode was quite cinematic, I must confess. Here I was embarking on a journey to create a film while living through a scenario straight out of one.
It was about a 3-hour journey, and I was attempting to take a nap when I was awakened by a phone call.
“Sir, where have you reached? Please tell me your whereabouts,” inquired the person on the other end of the line.
“I’m sorry, who is this?” I asked.
“I am the SP of Yavatmal. Since I am caught up with some urgent work, I am sending the TI to receive you,” he said.
Wait, what? Am I dreaming? The SP of a district is calling me from his personal phone, addressing me as “Sir,” and expressing regret about not being able to come to pick me up? Is he mistaking me for a high-ranking official, which clearly I am not?
The veins in my brain were pulsating with this thought, just like any other common man’s would. Oh, what a travesty to fall short of someone’s expectations, and it indeed was causing me anxiety.
While I was still trying to comprehend the extraordinary turn of events, I was interrupted again.
“Sir, the TI with his team will meet you at the bus stop. I have provided your cell phone number to him, and he will contact you shortly.”
When my bus reached Yavatmal, I disembarked and waited for the TI. Shortly after, my phone rang.
“Sir, where are you? The entire bus has emptied, but we can’t locate you,” he informed.
“Well, I’m right here, sitting on my bag under the tree,” I responded.
It then struck me that the individuals I had been observing, frantically searching the bus for a while, were, in fact, police officials in civilian clothes. They had also noticed me, but they did not recognize me because I bore no resemblance to the person they were expecting. I realized they likely anticipated someone with an official appearance, and I was far from fitting that description. It was a comically embarrassing situation!
Nevertheless, they respectfully escorted me into their car and dropped me off at the government guesthouse, typically reserved only for VIPs. The SP was, indeed, “taking care” of me.
Later on, they arranged a meal for me and inquired if I required any additional assistance.
“Well, if you could provide guidance on the route to the worst-affected areas, that would be helpful,” I replied.
After a moment of contemplation, the officer responded, “Sir, I will make arrangements. Those are tribal areas, and it may be unsafe for you to go there alone. As our boss’s guest, your security is our responsibility. Moreover, you may encounter challenges with communicating in their language. I am a local, and I will accompany you along with security.”
Despite my initial hesitation, I recognized the validity of his concerns, so I agreed. The trip was scheduled for the next morning.
A group of police officials in plain clothes accompanied me to the villages, facilitating the capture of the desired footage. I then moved on to my next destination, Nanded, where I received a similar warm welcome from the police administration. However, a particularly remarkable experience awaited me in Beed.
In the regions I explored, Beed faced the most severe impact, and I needed a list of names and addresses of farmers who had tragically ended their lives. The logical source for this list was the police station. Arriving in Beed later in the evening and constrained by my hectic schedule, I couldn’t afford to wait another day for the list. So, I proceeded directly to the police station, where I was promptly informed about the procedure for submitting an application and the need for a justifiable cause to access such sensitive information. Adding to the challenge, I was cautioned that the approval process might take 7-10 days, if approved at all.
Reluctant to exploit my connection with the SP, the urgency of the situation compelled me to do so. And so, I did.
“Sir, I’m a guest of the Superintendent of Police and currently staying at the VIP guesthouse. I’m running out of time and urgently need to interview the families of the deceased farmers for a documentary,” I informed the police station in-charge.
And then the magic ensued.
Word swiftly spread throughout the entire station, and I found myself gradually surrounded by officials of varying ranks, eager to share firsthand information and experiences. Some hoped to leverage my connection with the top official for promotions or to recruit their family members. Their aspirations, however, were somewhat unrealistic. I was ushered into a conference room for a briefing on the situation. The lady officer responsible for record-keeping was contacted pretty late at night after her office hours to locate the records I sought. The entire station was focused on achieving one objective – briefing me on the situation and providing me with the necessary records. Such was the power and influence when you knew the right people in the system.
A little later, I had the whereabouts of the families I needed to interview. The next day, I also managed to befriend a local journalist covering the suicides. In turn, they introduced me to several influential personalities in the area who accompanied me, aiding in reaching out to and communicating with the families, facilitating translation.
All in all, I successfully visited several villages in the remotest parts of these towns and accomplished a nearly impossible feat of gathering sensitive footage in such a short span of time that one can only dream of. The entire journey through Maharashtra was an eye-opener for me. Not only did I firsthand learn about the plight of the farmers with my boots on the ground, but I also gained insights into the interconnectedness and intricate web of the system.
It was that one phone call that changed everything.
