Crime reporting, though long considered a ‘hard’ beat to be covered by serious (read: male) reporters, is a core part of Khabar Lahariya’s grassroots journalism. For one reporter, being put on the crime beat took her back home. Suneeta Prajapati discusses the strategies and compromises that allowed her to carve out a niche in journalism and earn a place in the hearts of many girls from rural India.
This is a translated and edited transcript of the sixth installment in our podcast F-Rated Interviews, titled ‘The Joys of Reporting Crime’. Listen to the full episode in Hindi. Translation to English by Sarth Patel.
TTE: You have spoken previously about your perception of crime being built on the field — not just the place you lived in, but what you have seen since you were a child. Can you elaborate on this?
Suneeta: As a child, one might not know what ‘crime’ is, especially if you come from a very remote interior area. Serious incidents, like murder, are what people call crime. Mining is carried out extensively in the area I used to live in — legally and sometimes illegally — but that market is now diminishing. My parents and I worked in these mines.
Often, I would see tractors overloaded with rocks lose their balance and overturn in steep valleys. Their drivers or anyone hit by the falling vehicle, would die. People would look at the casualties and go back home. No further action would be taken.
The owners and accountants would then force labourers to run away, and would leave the dead bodies at hospitals. Nothing really happened. Operations in the mountains would halt for two days or a week, and then everything would continue like before.
We discussed these incidents among ourselves because many of our neighbours died this way. After the post-mortem, an agreement was made between the police, the mine owner and the victim’s family, mediated by the ‘big’ political leaders, so that no legal case was filed. The victim’s families were told that those in power would not listen even if a case was filed. Even the police would explain to them that filing a case would be futile, because they would not be able to prove that someone died in the mountains. So, a settlement would be made.
In the post-mortem report, a very basic explanation was written: that the man [who died] was going somewhere, perhaps to urinate; he slipped and fell.
Reports like these are written to bury the truth, so that no one discovers that such cases occur in the mountains.
When I entered the field, seeing crime felt very normal; it happened. My interest also piqued because crime reporting isn’t considered a woman’s field. There is blood. Different kinds of incidents occur: people are gruesomely murdered or die in severe accidents. Since women are thought to be ‘weak-hearted’, it isn’t considered a space for them.
In my early days of reporting for KL during 2012-13, I worked on a case where a woman was burnt and her family had her admitted to a hospital. I entered the emergency ward where she was admitted, and was utterly shocked to see the horrifying state of her injuries. I stepped out because my heart was thumping with fear. A male reporter hurt me deeply when he noticed this and mocked, who made me a reporter when I could not even do my work?
I sat outside for a while and questioned myself: Is it true that I'm not a good reporter if I don’t report crime? Am I missing something if I can’t bear to look at a crime like this?
Since then, I began to look at crime very closely: what it is, how it transpires and why it happens among us. I left everything else and stepped into crime [reporting]. I’ve covered incidents across a spectrum – from the minute to the dangerously severe. I’ve seen accidents where bits of human flesh were scattered everywhere and I was there, covering that event. I’ve seen women hanging from a noose.
Death, accidents, molestation and rape are extremely common. In almost every case in our region, the woman is deemed the culprit. If you ask anyone who is to blame for any of the numerous cases of violence against women, people will point fingers at the woman. They will question her character, call her “loose” and cite that as the reason she was harassed. “Had that not been the case,” they say, “no one would have the audacity to even touch her.”
But that is not how it really is. We have seen it quite often: you’re walking on the streets and men will touch you and run away. Are you really at fault? What can you even do? If you are harassed in a crowd, how will you identify the perpetrator? Yet, if you tell anyone what happened, all the blame will be turned toward you. “There were so many people; could you not shout? Had you told someone, the guy would have been caught and beaten up.”
This is not normal, though. In that huge crowd, we are alone. If neither your family nor the neighbourhood accepts that such an incident happened to you and that you were not at fault, who in that crowd will ever agree that you were not to blame?
TTE: You’ve spoken of crime in a very personal, intimate way. We usually think it as distant happening in some ‘other’ home or ‘other’ neighbourhood. In news coverage, it is usually framed in the language of the ‘sensational’ and that becomes a familiar way for us to understand it. The journalist, then, probably traverses between the sensational and the everyday.
Can you walk us through your work process?
Suneeta: Firstly, your presence at the crime scene is necessary to understand a crime. The number of aspects pertaining to a crime is so great that people might not be able to clearly spell some out; they can only be seen and felt.
For instance, no one really tells me what is written in the post-mortem report. I have tried countless times to interview families and ask why they had not filed cases, but people usually don’t tell you. You can only understand by going there yourself and reading the reports. Even the police will not tell you.
At a crime scene, you see what has taken place. At the time of post-mortem, you observe the steps the police take. When you analyse these two instances, the differences become clear: what it really is, which pieces are missing and where.
This is why your presence is of utmost importance.
I see two ways in which things pan out. In one, someone might blurt out what they faced, out of anger. In the other, you can only stay silent and learn. If a mother is crying over her daughter’s pain, that cannot be expressed merely in words. Only by listening to her and observing the scene can you begin to understand what she is going through. There are two very different scenarios and it is essential to understand both.
Time and again, we see cases like these being sensationalised. Today, there is a strong push for TRPs (Target/Television Rating Points), and many people are drawn to news that is presented in a sensational manner. Women, in particular, have been mocked far too often and many people write, read and watch [news about them] through the lens of mockery.
TTE: You mentioned ‘accidents’ — things you had seen very frequently even before becoming a reporter. Yet, you came to understand this kind of crime on the field. What is your outlook, particularly towards an ‘accident’, whether at a mining site, quarry, agricultural land or in any field?
Suneeta: When I was a child, accidental deaths in the mountains seemed perfectly normal to me. They were as common as spilling water. What could you do about it? It is just water, after all. In such cases, my family would not allow me to go close to see what had happened, nor would they talk about it — making it difficult for me to comprehend the incident. Within a week, everything in the mountains would return to normal. You would not even know that something serious had occurred.
However, when I started working in the field and covering cases like accidents at mining sites, murders or dowry deaths, I began to see the reality. Although everything often ends with a settlement and the affected families remain silent, these families go on to face many adversities, having perhaps lost their sole breadwinner. An earning member is a huge support system, especially for family elders. In their absence, compensation of one, two or even five lakh rupees offers only temporary relief.
Meanwhile, the lives of other workers remain at risk. Basic provisions like safety belts and helmets are not provided for their protection even now. Someone died today; someone else might die tomorrow.
It is only by witnessing such cases repeatedly and in close proximity, that you realise how systems actually work. Seen cursorily, they may just seem normal.
Those with money rarely face any consequences because it is easy for them to settle a case with cash. But what happens to the victim’s family? How do they survive? Who will support them?
Let me tell you about a case. A woman had two, maybe three children and her husband worked in the mountains. He was quarrying stones off a hilly terrain while tied to a rope [for safety], when the rope snapped and he fell. The mountain owner took the man to Hamirpur district for treatment without informing his family. By afternoon or evening, the family learnt that the man was injured and had been taken to a hospital. When the woman went to visit him at the hospital, she did not get to see him. She was told that he was being transferred elsewhere. She went there but found nothing. The next morning, she finally learnt that her husband had died and was in a mortuary.
When a settlement was being drafted, a sum of two or two and a half lakh rupees was offered to her. She told them the sum would barely cover her children’s marriages. How would she provide for their education, food, clothes and other necessities without an earning member in the family? The owner, who was and still is a political leader, promised her monthly rations for basic necessities. She agreed because she had a family of four to feed and had accepted her fate.
A month later, when she approached the owner, he refused further support. He refused to provide her any money, stating that he had already given her funds,. When she approached the police, they in turn questioned her delay. “Where were you all this while? It took a month for you to realise your husband’s dead?”
Tell me, if a woman is grieving the loss of her husband, will she lodge an FIR (First Information Report) or look after her children and herself? When people needed her, they pressured her into signing an agreement. When she needed them, they turned their backs. Such cases are very frequent.
TTE: You mention the word ‘safety’. When we spoke with Safina Nabi in another episode, she mentioned how, as a journalist herself, she has to take care of her own safety. When you report such cases – where a political leader is most likely to be involved and we’re perhaps certain no culprits will be caught – how safe or unsafe are you?
Suneeta: Since such cases are extremely common in our areas; the people behind these crimes live right in our neighbourhoods. We meet them every day. They know our families. In some situations, if a case has happened in my area, another reporter is called in to report it.
I am a journalist now and people already know that. No matter who covers a story here, my name will inevitably come up, because people know that I work for the channel broadcasting that news. It will not matter whether a reporter from another town, KL, NDTV or any other channel reports the case; only the two to four local reporters will be suspected as informants. I had to ask myself – how long will I run away?
There have been many instances where people have visited my home or spoken to my father after I have covered a case. They even directly told me while I was interviewing them that they knew I belonged to the same neighbourhood [as them], that they knew my father. They asked why I was talking with them the way I was, when I was “like their daughter”. This is how people address me; but my work is to present the truth. How can I abandon that?
I was passionate about uncovering the truth. There was fear of course, but there was also courage. What is the worst that could happen? We have all seen that journalists have repeatedly been subjected to violence.
But if I do not take up a case due to that fear, then what is my role? If I can’t bring forward suppressed voices, why am I even a journalist? That is also a different kind of crime I’m committing against myself.
I have always been drawn to debate, discussion, being known for my work and being fearless – I believe in talking with anyone and telling them straight that if something is wrong, then it simply is wrong.
TTE: A journalist’s work is not just bravely witnessing a dead body and writing about it; it is also to bring forth suppressed voices and to be ‘present’. What are your strategies?
Suneeta: If you’re covering a story in a rural region — I’ll give you an instance. Let’s suppose you have worked on a story in a colony where a family claims that the Pradhan (village head) has extracted money from them. When you approach the Pradhan, they are likely to ask you who told you that they had taken money. You can then adopt the strategy of not divulging the name of the family that informed you, since they will have to spend their entire lives in that same village, under the authority of Pradhan. You must, therefore, be mindful of the family’s safety.
If you’re reporting on an accident and the victim’s family is openly sharing their experience while the police are not listening, your job is to amplify their voice. However, if the family tells you they do not want to raise the issue because it would endanger them, you have to carefully think about what to do.
For a journalist, both the safety of crime victims and the responsibility of bringing the story to light are equally important.
You must work on the case in a way that does not pose a danger to you or the victim’s family, while still uncovering the truth. Creating this balance is necessary. Without it, you might be met with violence often.
I remember once covering a story in the mountains. I had been taking photographs when the people noticed me through security cameras. Soon the accountant and people guarding the area surrounded me. They even tried to snatch my camera. I very politely explained that the pictures were only capturing the beauty and work in the region and were not meant to expose the illegal activities being carried out.
In such situations, you are forced to figure out what to do [on the spot]; you can’t plan beforehand and must be ready to respond as the situation demands. Being prepared is crucial, because you can’t keep others safe if you are not safe yourself. To work with these strategies is important.
TTE: You started your career in Mahoba. Before that, what did journalism mean to you? How did you explain the work you were stepping into, to the people around you? Reporting in rural areas, as KL does, is a revolution in itself.
Suneeta: I used to hear about accidents or floods often. I would sometimes read about them in letters or newspapers. If I chanced upon a tiny piece of newspaper even while sweeping the floor, I would read it. That’s how I knew what news and newspapers were.
When I joined KL in 2012, I didn’t know much about it. The typical perception of a journalist in my mind was a man in a pantsuit, speaking in English or Hindi [with] cameras and cars. So when I saw a newspaper written in Bundeli with large, bold letters, I wondered — what kind of newspaper is this?
KL gave me the opportunity I was eagerly looking for. As a child, I wanted to go out and do something.
I wanted to become a police officer because I saw how [women] police officers could be present in every situation.
They move freely at night. They wear uniforms like the policemen do. They can approach and talk to anyone. They can stop anyone. This fascinated me.
When I was selected to be a part of [KL’s] journalism, I realised that I had more power than the police. When I went to a police station, I was offered a chair. People respected me because I was a journalist. I felt so good! That I could go to the District Magistrate — someone I had only ever heard of but never seen — sit in front of him and ask questions… or that I could interview a Member of the Legislative Assembly. While people at home don’t allow me to speak or sit in front of elders, my profession allows me to question and debate with such important leaders!
That’s when I learnt what journalism is — I entered this profession and saw it for myself. I realised that this was also something I could do.
Coming to your question about what I said within the four walls of my house, it has been difficult — really, it has — spending 12 years at KL. In the early days, when I had only gone for an interview for the job, some people found out. They joyously declared that I got a job, but they did not know what it was.
KL works at the grassroots, in rural regions. We would cover news about toilets, canals, pavements/stone roads (khadanja), garbage lying scattered around town due to lack of dustbins, the presence of mosquitoes or other such issues, especially during our print days. Since villages lay in remote interior areas that were not well-connected by roads, we often had to walk long distances. I would quite frequently have to step out for work at seven in the morning and return home at eight at night, and people started spreading rumours about me loitering around until late at night. As I started interacting with other journalists, having tea with them or discussing cases at roadside stalls, people would comment on that too.
At first, even my family asked me not to come home so late or travel too far. It took time to explain it to my family.
I didn’t even try to explain myself to my neighbours. I only told my family that if they trusted me, it meant everything to me; but if they didn’t, then I had nothing.
My mother supported me greatly, although my father didn’t want me to pursue this career.
I had very little formal education, only until the fifth grade, and then I started working in mining. I didn’t study up to eighth grade; instead, I jumped directly to the ninth, completing high school while still working in the mines. When I joined KL right after high school, I used my salary to continue my education.
I was in tenth grade when I joined KL. My mother told me that regardless of whether it was a private or a government job, I should go out and work. Gradually, I gained support from the rest of my family.
When your family starts supporting you and answers back to questioning neighbours, people begin to fall silent. As I gained recognition, met the police and built contacts — and people saw the police greeting me as I would pass them by — the very people who once wanted to bring me down said that they always knew I would succeed.
TTE: Now that you started learning more, you felt a sense of agency. This is power. We repeatedly say that power cannot be seen only through one framework. Through your work, in these 14-15 years of your life, how has your perception of power evolved?
Suneeta: When covering a story where a Pradhan or any other officer of authority refuses to give a byte, we, as reporters, have our own P2C (Piece to Camera) to convey what the officials have stated.
When a reporter directly faces and speaks to the camera, sharing their opinion and experience of what they saw or felt — as opposed to conducting an interview — it is what is called their P2C, Piece to Camera. They might explain that they’re at a specific location, that they tried to speak with a person in authority but received no answer, that they were replied to rudely, or an FIR is not being filed as the police are saying that there was no police complaint in spite of an application for an FIR that the victim insisted she’d given.
When a news report is edited, the Piece to Camera typically appears first, followed by any interviews. This, in itself, is a form of power.
It is important for me to present my case and I do so with my own opinions too — that is my power. If a poor person or a woman is not receiving their pension or if an FIR is not being registered for a female survivor of violence, I also have the power to question the authorities and facilitate the necessary actions. We can look at [power] through various other such perspectives.
TTE: You now work with aspiring journalists. Can you tell us about this work of teaching at Chambal Academy? What have you learnt through the process of educating others?
Suneeta: We established Chambal Academy in 2021, bringing together everything we’ve learnt in journalism. We put all our trainings into an online course. We don’t want to turn everyone into a journalist; nor does everyone want to be one. Students have various other platforms to explore. What we do want, however, is for every student to develop the ability to observe, question and understand what is happening around them as well as find the confidence to express it.
The training programmes and fellowships we have offered so far have yielded very interesting outcomes. People have pointed out the gendered differences in their own homes: how a brother gets fruits and milk but his sister doesn’t, how he can go out but she cannot, or how a 10-year-old girl must be accompanied by her 5-year-old brother while going to the market. How can he even help her? But he’s the brother. They start noticing things like these, which once seemed normal to them.
We have a module specifically designed along issues of gender and caste. In one of our batches, a girl shared that she was a seasoned kabaddi player in school and had formed a team of 12 players. Since she belonged to a backward caste, her coach dropped her from the team and she never got to play. It was only during our course that she realised why that had happened. We later wrote about her experience in an article, which received a Laadli Media Award for Gender Sensitivity.
Our aim is precisely this: that people look critically at what’s happening around them, realise what is unjust and voice opposition against that.
To those who want to be reporters, I would say that although journalism is not considered a woman’s field, it is necessary that you enter it.
Unless you come in, no one will know about your stories.
Take water, for instance. Who can tell us how many drums of water the woman at home fills, the long distance she walks to get that water, the number of times she does that and how her feet and skin burn in the sunlight? The man wakes up, bathes and leaves, but the woman fetches water all day long: to cook, bathe, wash clothes and for domestic animals. Who else but the woman herself can tell us about this? If you talk to the men, they’ll tell you there is a scarcity of water, that 10 km have to be walked and repeated rounds have to be made all day. But who will tell you about the pain, suffering and exhaustion of the woman? That is why it is extremely important for women to be doing this work.
TTE: You bring in your own examples and lived experiences, and even encourage young girls to enroll in Chambal Academy, to bring in their life experiences and learn to explore them. Usually, there is no curriculum for this. So, what do you teach in your classes?
Suneeta: I have spent plenty of time in the field and am from the same region our students come from. I am not saying they are specifically from Mahoba, Banda or Chitrakoot, but wherever they are from — be it Kanpur, Jalaun, Orai, Bihar, Chhattisgarh or Haryana — their region is also rural, which is common between us. I know that the way it is for me here is the same for my students somewhere else, because they too are women.
I connect very well with these young girls. When we talk, they easily open up about their experiences. We don’t listen to their stories from the get-go. Instead, we tell them our own stories: what we’ve seen, felt and experienced. On hearing us, they resonate, realising that our story is their journey too. So, they gradually open up.
TTE: People share so many experiences with you. Are there some questions that have stayed with you; ones that you still think about or have to face?
Suneeta: Many times! Questions were common for me because I was not married. People would ask, “Are you married?”
I would say, “No.”
“Your parents let you out like this, alone? Is no one accompanying you? How do you roam around alone in the field? What if something happens [to you]?”
Time passed and I thought that this really wouldn’t do. I changed my attire, started wearing different footwear and a bindi on my forehead, just so I would look married. Then, when I went out on the field:
“Are you married?”
“Yes, I’m married.”
“What does your husband do?”
“He does… something.”
Questions like those repeatedly came up, not only on the field but also from male journalists around me.
“He has his own work, his business. I have my own work.”
Even a senior officer once asked me if I was married and what my husband did. It was not even relevant. He should have answered my questions first. Far too many people want to intrude into my personal life and ignore my questions. It is far too common and we are forced to suffer because we have to meet and talk with people every day. If we fight or argue with them, they won’t answer us in the future. Maintaining this balance is crucial, so we are forced to do it.
Even caste is frequently asked about.
“What caste do you belong to?”
I would have to, in turn, ask, “What caste do you belong to?”
If they said they were Pandit, I would say that I was also a Pandit. Whatever caste they would say, I would say the same.
TTE: In all these years of your work, what gives you pleasure? What part of your work do you truly enjoy?
Suneeta: I truly enjoy crime reporting because it places me in the middle of very crowded scenes, filled with police and people in positions of authority. I move among them, asking questions, closely observing the crime scene, analysing what has happened. Once I understand it, I ask people questions separately. When the police try to conceal something, I try to get them to reveal that information by pointing out what I have seen and heard from other people. This is what brings me a lot of pleasure.
I also find myself gaining recognition among these crowds – where there are thousands of men – and I am the only woman journalist. People see me and recognise me as a journalist.
I try to uncover what is being hidden. As I said, I revel in quarrelling with anyone about anything. It is too frequent with cases of crime reporting that deliberate attempts are made to suppress the truth.
TTE: If you were to recollect your entire journey — your personal and professional life, what you were doing before and what you are doing now — and summarise who Suneeta is in a few words, what would you say?
Suneeta: It’s very challenging to describe myself and summarise my journey in a few words, because my life has been full of highs and lows. Maybe I can say that there are rocks and there’s a river. The river tumbles over the rocks and progresses forward. It continues flowing as the rocks appear in its way, perhaps reaching its destination. I think that is all I will say.
I have lived many lives. When I worked in a mine with my family, that was a different life. When I entered journalism; my marriage had its share of highs and lows; when I became a mother. Everything is happening and we are simply moving through it.
Suneeta Prajapati is a journalist from Mahoba district in Uttar Pradesh and has been working with Khabar Lahariya (KL) since 2012. A Senior Reporter until 2020, she began training young girls in journalism in 2021 via Chambal Media’s training vertical, Chambal Academy, as the Operations Manager.
