The day Rajdeep Sardesai learned he’s a ‘marked man’ in ‘Modi Raj’

26 January. A day when the Indian state showcases its military might and cultural heritage. The ceremonies along the Rajpath boulevard – renamed ‘Kartavya Path’ by the Modi government – are designed to invoke patriotic fervour while showcasing the power and grandeur of the state. Whether a constitutional republic whose foundations were laid by heroic freedom fighters challenging a colonial empire needs a Soviet-style military ritual and tacky state-sponsored tableaux to keep the nationalistic testosterone pumping is debatable.

But everyone loves a colourful parade, even if it’s ultimately the VVIPs who get a ringside view of the show, while the rest of the country watches it on TV, awestruck, from their homes. In a sense, the parade symbolises the national dominance of New Delhi’s Lutyens’ elite, the very social class that Prime Minister Narendra Modi’s government claims to despise.

Today, however, one elite has replaced another, the privileged Nehruvian charmed circle having given way to the torchbearers of Hindutva. The Lutyens’ elite today is Team Modi.

The 2021 Republic Day parade, though, was very different. While the jawans marched on Rajpath, kisans agitating against the implementation of the farm laws enacted by the Modi government decided to undertake their own parallel tractor rally as a mark of protest. My reporter instincts suggested that the farmer protest was almost certain to be eventful and would be best covered in the field rather than the comfort of a television studio.

And so, on the bitterly cold night of 25 January, with the city engulfed in dense fog, we drove cautiously with hazard lights blinking to the Singhu border near Haryana, ground zero of the farmer agitation. We found accommodation after midnight in a ramshackle bed-and-breakfast hotel along the highway and barely managed a few hours’ sleep.

By 8 am the next day, we were in the midst of a large crowd of slogan-shouting farmers wearing distinctive colourful turbans, most of them atop their tractors and a few riding horses and motorcycles. The mood was rebellious but festive, with patriotic songs blaring from loudspeakers. Posters of Bhagat Singh were held aloft. The tricolour fluttered in the skyline. Judging by the celebratory atmosphere, we could scarcely have foreseen the drama that was about to unfold. It was close to noon when we first got reports that the farmers’ protest had turned violent in central Delhi.

A colleague shared images of the police clashing with farmers and using tear gas at the ITO metro station in the heart of the capital. The protestors had broken through the police barricades, some even using their tractors to ram through the police pickets, and engaged in pitched battles with the men in khaki. We, meanwhile, were struggling to make our way through the crowded streets. Mobile networks had been cut off and traffic was being diverted from the main road to restore law and order. We abandoned our vehicles and began to walk briskly towards central Delhi.

It was almost 2 pm by the time we reached the ITO building, the epicentre of the violence. The police by then had regained control over the area, which looked somewhat like a war zone. Most of the protestors had been dispersed, the broken barricades, stones and tear gas shells littering the streets the only signs of the bedlam that had occurred just hours earlier. On the main thoroughfare, we noticed that a crowd had gathered and was refusing to leave the area.

Cutting through the police cordon, we saw a group of young protestors surrounding a body that lay motionless on the ground before them, wrapped in a white cloth. ‘The police shot our friend when he was riding the tractor,’ some of them shouted, pointing to the blood oozing from the forehead wounds of the dead man. ‘We will not leave till we get justice,’ insisted another. I was reporting live on the sights and sounds before me, the angry voices getting more enraged by the minute by my questions to them on just who was responsible for the violence.

‘All of you are godi media who only put out the government version; get away from here,’ a loud voice hollered even as another angry protester tried to snatch our camera. ‘Godi media’ was a term being used with increased frequency to target journalists who were accused of being in the godi, or lap, of the Modi government. It was the first time anyone had called me a ‘godi media’ newsman. Aghast, I attempted to defend myself against the accusation, only to find that the situation was getting markedly hostile, and I was forced to walk away from the crowd that was closing in on us.

Soon after, I tweeted exactly what the victim’s friends had said on camera to me: ‘One person, 45-year-old Navneet Singh was killed allegedly in police firing. Farmers tell me the “sacrifice” will not go in vain.’ A little later, the police claimed that the farmer-protester had died when his tractor overturned while crashing through a barricade. 

Realising that I may have been misled by the angry mob, I deleted the tweet and pointed out conflicting reports that were emerging from what was a rapidly evolving situation on the ground. Live news coverage in a highly charged atmosphere demands a high level of due diligence and sensitivity in reporting.

However, in the heat of the moment and in a swiftly changing situation, it is practically impossible to verify every accusation being made. Reporters on the field are bound to report what they see and hear, and update their stories as events unfold. That is what I was attempting to do, although the tense environment made it even more difficult to navigate through the contradictory versions. I had no doubt erred in tweeting an unconfirmed, possibly misleading claim and putting out the unverified information on air in haste and in the heat of the moment.

But was I guilty of sedition or indeed a ‘mala fide act with the deliberate intention of inciting trouble’? Could a journalistic error of judgement in a crazed atmosphere be seen as evidence of seditious behaviour? Surely not.

At no stage had I tried to provoke the protestors. Ironically, it was the incensed crowd that shouted me down and drove me away from the site for questioning the farmers about their role in triggering the violence. I must confess to feeling hounded and targeted by the slew of FIRs that had been filed by the police in different BJP-ruled states accusing me of sedition. On 9 February 2021, the Supreme Court intervened to stay our arrest and protected us from any coercive action. During the hearing, then Chief Justice of India Justice SA Bobde asked Solicitor General Tushar Mehta whether the government intended to arrest us. Mehta, the government’s legal voice, was non-committal, seeking more time to argue the matter instead.

The hearing was taking place virtually over a Zoom link, so the tension was perhaps less palpable, but it was apparent that the government wanted to throw the book at us. That evening a minister friend called. ‘Rajdeep, you need to be more careful. This is Modi raj and you are a marked man,’ he warned.

Excerpted with permission from Sardesai’s book 2024: The Election That Surprised India (HarperCollins).