Covering a CM’s Death: False Alarms, the Wait and Amma’s Wake
On Amma’s 1st death anniversary, Vikram Venkateswaran looks back at the night that kept Chennai on its tenterhooks.
My father would say going to a funeral and a wake, helping someone out in their grief, is part of the process of growing up.
I covered Jayalalithaa’s death and funeral last year. I don’t think I was much help to anyone there. But about it being a ‘growing up’ experience, my father was bang on.
The Night Before
I have horrid memories of Apollo hospital from my childhood. That was where my father had an unsuccessful spine surgery, and carries chronic pain from his ordeal. It was also where I was knocked hard on the head by a deranged sixty-year-old, who chased me for a good 50 metres. I was eight years old then, and before the sweeter memories of that age can kick in, I always get a whiff of formaldehyde, hair dye, and a suddenly full bladder.
The voice on the other side of the line, a thousand miles away in Delhi, asks me. It is not a question, and I oblige. This would be the first time in 25 years that I set foot anywhere near that hospital.
I knew nothing would be announced that night. It’s just one of those things you feel, when you get to ground zero. But then, Jayalalithaa wasn’t the story that night.
Amma’s Devo-teas; Karunanidhi, Muthu and Jaya
My interest in politics is like a vegetarian’s interest in Master Chef. It makes for great TV, but very little feels relevant. But in the middle of the night, there are those who would take the trouble to wait on the road, shout slogans at 2am, and get by on a small cup of tea. And this, to me, was intriguing.
Meet Karunanidhi, who shares his name with Amma’s arch nemesis. He’s an ardent follower of MGR, and now an Amma devotee. It was his love for movies that translated into his adoration of MGR. It was his MGR fandom that elicits devotion to Amma.
No one knows what Muthu does for a living. He won’t tell. But everyone knows he thinks Amma is God. The party office, and now the roads leading to Apollo hospital, are his pilgrimage.
Jaya, a transgender from Coimbatore was passing by when someone gave her the news that Amma was on her deathbed. She decided to wait. She’d been sitting at the pavement for over four hours with her ‘mother’.
False Alarm
At around 5.30 pm the next day, the entire stretch of Greams Road was blocked. There were more police than public. Well, almost. The media were cordoned off along an ante-road leading to the hospital. Every vehicle, be it an ambulance, a benz or a police van, was followed by a thousand eyes. ‘Could she be in it?’ ‘Are they taking her away?’
The crowd screamed their devotion to Amma in waves, along the road. The media, with their cameras followed the loudest cries.
It was almost like suspense coalesced into matter, and hung thick. The air was balmy. It was almost like the stage was set, for a major announcement.
45 minutes earlier, Jayalalithaa had suffered a cardiac arrest and was re-admitted into the ICU. In what was probably a classic case of Chinese Whispers, cardiac arrest translated to ‘heart attack’, which holds a sense of finality in the Indian context.
Pandemonium broke out. From about 3 pm, the crowds had gathered from all across town, and a few groups from as far as Salem. This was their moment, to let out their grief, in support of their ‘Mother’.
Barricades flew across the road. The police pushed with their shields, from strategic bottlenecks. A fleet of police vans stood ready, as overly emotional party workers were siphoned into the vans and taken away.
Thanthi TV, a local news channel that grew popular for NOT being an AIADMK or DMK mouthpiece broke the news.
Ten minutes later, all was calm, until midnight.
Jayalalithaa Dies
Ashish Dixit was flown in from Mumbai to cover Amma’s death. He had a better grasp of politics and an even better grasp of a Marathi speaking audience, all of whose eyes were trained south.
In what seems to be a skewed ‘tryst with destiny’ hangover, the announcement came at midnight, by way of a press release. The PR stole the show for a few minutes, as every lens and light was trained upon the crumpled, by the now quite damp A4 sheet.
Ashish and I went LIVE right after the announcement, and tossed to each other, slowly building a narrative that was as helpful to us in making sense of it all, as it was to the audience.
The rest of the night was spent in idle banter and talking of food and recipes we both would have liked to have, but couldn’t (3 am, FYI). We finally ate at my parent’s house, and then went home.
The Ramayana Effect
When Ramanand Sagar’s Ramayan played on Doordarshan, all of India watched. For that one hour, nothing moved.
That was what happened on the 5th of December, 2016. Every single home across the state had their televisions sets on. Whether it was a 60 inch LED or an AMMA TV or DMK TV; it was Jayalalithaa’s wake that they all watched.
Throughout the day, I shot empty roads, and sought perspectives: what now? Who will come to power next? Will the DMK-AIADMK standoff in TN politics finally end?
A year on, none of these questions have found answers.
Ashish and I walked for over two miles to reach the memorial, since the entire stretch of the marina was cordoned off. We arrived, and we watched.
All that Chennai did on the 5th, was watch. Watch the spectacle of the dubious death and glorious funeral of a reluctant leader, who moved the masses, though unwillingly.
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