Dogs barking, brooms sweeping the ground clean, people queueing up for milk with bottles and cans in their hands, Swiggy guys waiting in a huddle for perhaps the day’s first order.… Park Circus Maidan was waking up.

I walked in through the large iron gate and up to the mosque on the ground, from where I turned right towards my destination. One of the first things I spotted was a series of handwritten signage that said “Ladies’ Toilet”. I walked ahead, as if in a spell, still trying to grasp why I was there. My feet took me ahead as my mind searched for an answer. In between, I stopped to look at the posters all around.

Before I knew it, I was standing in front of the now-famous canopy. A handful of women (and some men) lay on the raised platform under the shade, wrapped in blankets, sleeping. Others had just woken up and were still sitting on what has been their bed for the past several days.

On the ground in front of the shed lay the remnants of the night before... biscuit and potato chips packets, banana and orange peel. A man had started picking up the mats one by one, as he called out to another one for help. Soon there were half a dozen others, all meticulously picking up the mats, dusting them and putting them out to sun. Much like one would clean one’s own courtyard or home. For, this had been their home for the past few days and nights. For, they had resolved to make this their home for the days to come as well... till the powers that be woke up.

I stood there, looking around, looking at the hands at work. My heart asked me to lend a hand but my feet remained rooted to the ground. The inaudible voice inside me was asking “bhaiyya, thoda haat lagaye aapke saath (brother, can I lend you a helping hand)?” but I fought in vain to utter those very words. In my mind, I had brushed off the stupor and picked up one of the dusty mats myself. In reality, I just stood there, watching.

It was my first time at any kind of protest and I was still grappling with the reason I was there. To show solidarity with the women — ordinary women — who had left the comfort and safety of their homes and familiar surroundings to brave the winter nights on an open ground, to take on the government and make themselves heard, I told myself. But the tiny other voice piped: “Or did you just want to see for yourself what you had read about? Did you think it was just fashionable to be there?”

With some resolve, I silenced the inner voices and started walking around, looking once again at the posters, clicking some photographs, before returning to the centre of “ground zero” and surveying once again. A few men had arrived, some seemed to have stopped there after a morning walk. They shook hands, exchanged greetings and spoke with each other.

Tricolour and banners against CAA, NRC and NPR

Outside the rope barricade, a few people stopped every now and then and glanced at the people before carrying on with their chores.

I had to start somewhere, I thought, and made my way out of the ground. Across the street, I had seen a fruit vendor while getting off the car. Two dozen bananas and a packet of dates were my morning’s first purchases.

My next stop was a small neighbourhood shop further down the road, from where I bought packets of biscuits. Armed with the food, I returned to Park Circus Maidan. This time I entered through the gate, much more confident. A few quick steps took me back to the canopy. The crowd of men had got a bit larger. I spotted a bearded man in a black leather jacket with a matching skull cap cleaning the mats a while ago. I walked up to him and said: “Thoda nashta laye hain, aap lenge kya (I have brought some snacks. Will you accept it)? ”

“Zaroor (sure),” came the spontaneous reply. “Waise nashta to kaafi hain, lekin sabhi apni apni tarah se contribute kar sakte hain (There’s enough snacks now, but everyone can contribute in their own way),” said another man.

I looked inside the canopy, which was emptier now with most having woken up, as someone said, “yeh sab bahut der se soye hain kal (they slept late last night)”, and spotted a table in one corner with packets of what I presumed was breakfast. A young boy took out a kochuri from a packet and ate.

Bringing my attention back to the group, I said: “Yahan pe jo bhi hain kharab nahin hoga, rakh dijiye (the food here won’t get spoiled, you can keep it for later)”. They nodded.

I felt warm. Was it the sun that was shining brighter than the past few days or the welcoming words?

Emboldened by the exchange, I walked to a corner of the canopy where a young woman in a burqa sat. I asked for her permission before sitting down next to her. “Aap sunke aayi hain (Did you come here after hearing about us)?” she asked. “Haan, sunke, padhke... (Yes I have heard and read about this).”

Soon, the man in the leather jacket walked up to me and said: “Aapne yeh kyun kahan ki ‘lenge kyan’? Aapko to kahna hain ki ‘lo’ (Why did you ask whether we would take what you were offering, you should have just said ‘take’)”. I managed a weak smile as he went on: “Aap jaise zyada aate hain yahan. Ladies log bahut aate hain, aur shaam ko aake dekhiye Hindu hi zyada hain. Yeh to Muslim logon ke baare mein nahin hain, sab backward logon ke baare mein hain. Yeh hamara protest nahin hain, aapka protest hain (There are many who come here. Many women come here. In the evenings, there are more Hindus than Muslims here. This is not only about Muslims, it’s about all backward people).”

I nodded and he went away before coming back to offer me a bottle of water.

I resumed my chat with the woman next to me. In the next few minutes, I had found out she had two children — a 14-year-old son and a 12-year-old daughter — who were spending the nights with her and had gone to school.

I told her I had come from Garia, that I came to Park Circus every other day because my daughter studied there. “Kaun sa school (Which school)?” she asked. A few minutes later, she got up to leave for home, where her mother-in-law was waiting. She had in her hand a packet with bottles of milk. “Bachho ko school bhej diya, thoda ghar hoke aate hain (I have sent the children to school, I will go home for a little while now).” That, I realised, had become the daily routine of many like her, before they returned to the ground by midday for another long and cold night.

Park Circus Maidan had woken up. But have we?