22
Sarpanch
Elections
Isn’t
the political scheme prudently planned? Yes, it’s! So, whenever people feel a
bit rusted (apolitically) political porringer is once again beaten. Same
happened in the countryside. Elections for the local bodies-–gram panchayat,
block samiti and zila parishad-–were announced.
At
higher political hierarchies a commoner’s role is just limited to casting
his/her vote. So, all those politically unemployed ones flocked to file their
names as grass-root contestants.
Most
crucial election was that of village headman for which seven candidates were in
the fray. Unmindful of becoming the butt of ridicule, the scheduled castes this
time put up their own candidate. It was in inharmonic contrast to the previous
elections when their votes were purchased, coaxed or assured by friendly
patron-pressure of the upper caste peers.
To
spring another surprise, a particular block of the village which had never
tasted the job of village leadership, this time decided to keep its vote bank
united. The decision added one more name to the contesters list. A young man---bearing
a pair of sleepy eyes---from this block, who cherished politics just like a
parrot’s craze for ripened fruits, utilised this new-found unifying sentiment
and politically effective voters’ knot of his block. He was thus the first one
to declare his candidature. In great anticipation, with water in his mouth, he
moved his fingers through the brush-like hair on his head.
The
contestants were pulling the innermost chords of their political acumen to
chalk out winsome permutations and combinations. They seemed so excited. After
all, the cosmic arena glittering with celestial fireflies (which they saw from
so far during the parliament and state assembly elections) had come down to the
grassroots level.
Votes
were to be interchanged and bargained among various contesting categories. For
example, a sarpanch candidate could muster up the support of block or zila
parishad candidates in return of supporting the latter.
The
conmen were engaged in hectic parleys. Election’s magic pill had been swallowed
completely. Propelled propagation of illusions came promissorily. Keeping their
fingers crossed about their own choices people raked up such dare-to-bare debates
in order to unveil each other’s real choice. Secrecy was the main principle.
There was to be a long, long list of back stabbers––people who enjoy the
pre-election corrupting beneficence to the hilt and then fudge on the last day.
The
candidates weren’t giving unduly distinct importance to any single person or
family, afraid that it might hurt the political pride of someone else. So they
preferred to knock at the doors for political alms in the dark of night.
Ridiculously fair and square: the candidates walking in the dark of night,
passing the opponent by an arm’s length, recognising each other, only to walk
away silently like thieves. So many winking bubbles burst in the dark of night
that the poor day could only imagine and guess about it.
There
were kingmakers too. So witty and phantasmagoric that they’d the capability to
fracture the conjugal political fidelity of even an opponent’s wife. Persons
who’d borrowed money from them, worked on their fields and other lower caste
people who took it a pride to be caught in the ensnaring circlet of ‘master-servant’
relationship (for it could be utilised favourably in the intra-caste disputes)
were the main chunks of these kingmakers’ clout. With dozens of such passive
votes secure in their pockets these politically more important people walked
with a vision of sophistication.
If
everything is fair in love and war, then it’s more so in an election. Attacked
by the amorous solemnity of political creativity each and every voter felt
ambushed.
The
crooked staff and stone pulpits of the grassroots politics had been made more
quarrelsome and lucrative now with the passage of constitutional provision for
providing constitutional status to these bodies. It secured financial status
(or plundering security) of the littlest cog-–the village headman-–in the
democratic machinery. The luminary legal eagles had passed the provision in the
hope of effectuating real transfer of political and administrative power to the
lowest rung of democracy. However, to these would-be-headmen a fuzzy
summarisation of the above lofty vision was only limited to a single corrupting
phrase:
“A
headman these days controls a big amount of money, which he can very easily
gobble up.”
So
these elections were becoming fiercely competitive---almost like bloody pitched
battles. Violence loomed large. Animosities arose. Numbing dissection of society
occurred on many farcical fronts.
There
were about three thousand votes in the village. The battle was to break even a
single vote from the opponents’ bank. How could then an aspiring candidate
leave the solo-membered ‘Election Boycott Morcha’? During the assembly
elections he had been criminally left out as a political untouchable, because
there were too many other votes at stake. So, redeemingly all of them visited
his house, complaisance oozing from their tongues.
In
the dark of nights they came one by one, expecting nobody politically motivated
already doing the same there. The masons approached with trowels in their hands
to mix this little piece of stone-crush in the political mortar.
On
one such occasion Ram Singh seemed hell bent upon venting out all his
grievances into the face of this very, very young political turtle craning its
neck out into the big world of craggy craftmanship:
“Yes
young man, I know your political ambitions. This’s your first step on the
ladder. Now, don’t sway your head in negative when I say sarpanch
election is dirtiest form of politics. Fleeced by that communal scoundrel you
joined that hate-preaching, supposedly patriotic rashtriya organisation,
which claims to be purely apolitical. ‘We’re just for the service of this
nation,’ crabbedly they suppress the communal politics running in their veins.
And I say membership of this organisation is nothing but an implicit membership
of its political patron. So here you’re contesting elections apolitically!
Young man why don’t you prepare for some examination and get some job?”
The
crusader’s animadverting words provoked the young khaki patriot a bit.
His upper lip twitched, which put his finely-trimmed and drooping moustache into
some agitation. “But tauji, I’m doing it for the service of people. In
camps we’re taught to serve the country. I’ll serve my country as an Indian!”
the young server of the motherland, having a strong and supple body, speechified.
The
teacher revamped his logic, “Ok! Let’s move aside from this election. You say
you want to serve the villagers as an Indian, then what place do you’ve for
poor Mohre?” the verbal conundrum fell as a little bombshell on the young
head-of-the-soil.
Mohre’s
was the single Muslim family left out in the village.
The
pinpricked young soul saturninely said, “Who’s saying they’ll be thrown out of
village? They can live as they wish.” His wholesome mouth tried to elongate and
broaden the ideology his young senses had happened to dabble in.
“Can
live as he wishes!” the teacher’s aggrieved soul mimicked. “You say this with
ease and confidence only because you’re more Muslim than him. By the knowledge
of it I mean. At least you know the most sacred religious place of his faith is
outside this fatherland of yours. You also know their festivals, medieval
history, and history of their organisations during the pre-independence period.
The poor man doesn’t know an iota of this... however, in all probability he’ll
come to know all this over a period of time due to your loudly yelling
patriotic taskmastership. A Muslim-–just a name’s worth. And mind you, if you
were more Muslim than you are presently, you would’ve condemned him as a
Pakistani!”
The
teacher seemed eager to go to his old chest of drawers in a corner by a wooden
bench along the wall, as if he had something in it to validate his point. He,
but, left the idea. Nonetheless, his rabid fulminations of secularism almost culled
the young man into ‘the controversy’. Prudishness spawned the young man’s face.
To while away his uneasiness he bent down to adjust his strapped sandals.
“What’s
this tauji? You’re unnecessarily stretching it too far,” the vote-monger
meekly protested.
“I’m
not stretching that far, son. Only trying to match your little depth in your
supposed service of the nation as an exclusive Indian or name it a Hindu.” With
a strange look the teacher looked at the terracotta figurines of the Gods and
Goddesses placed on a stone slab set in a corner of the room as if he wanted to
know the true meaning of ‘Hinduism’ from them.
The
impulsive young patriot, revolving around his nationalistic fondness, stood
stock-still, “Now since tauji you don’t want to forget about this
illustrious organisation of ours, I must tell you whatever we’re doing is good
for this country. Our principle is just simple. Whoever lives in this country
must be faithful to it from mind, body and soul. Simple and straight!”
“So
you fellows have the ability to peek into the souls and minds of the people!” the
teacher was now intently looking at the painted idol of Lord Rama in the centre
of his collection. The bulb was dimly on. A thick strand of cobweb laden with
dust and soot hang from the ceiling before the bulb’s feeble smile. It sent a
slightly imperceptible area of darkness between the two persons in the little
room.
“Because
their religion is their first priority! India
“Then
what do you people propose to do?”
“We
want Hindu pride to get so strong… so as to undo any disloyal plan!”
“Oh,
my God!” Ram Singh screamed and then laughed hoarsely. “Disease is in the heart and you people are
striking the head. My dear, what has Muslim disloyalty to do with your agenda
of creating strong, militantly strong Hindutva?”
Just
for the sake of a single jewel-precious vote, the young religious nationalist
kept quite.
With
an air of invincibility the teacher continued, “There’re fifteen crore Muslims
in this country. If you people go on targeting them like this, one day they’ll
come to understand and realise the tragic truth of ‘two-nation theory’. Two
religions, two nations. God forbid, if they start believing in it! It’ll result
in some other sibling of Pakistan
“But
why do’u blame us for each and everything happening now?” young man flinched
with a complaint. “There’re jehadis in Kashmir .
Want to dismember and destroy India Kashmir .”
“Those
bastards suck my blood more than yours! But still when I oppose you, that doesn’t
make me less patriotic than you. I fear for the partition of India Pakistan
“My
dear worried-man-for-this-country! If
you’re genuinely interested in serving your fatherland, you can do numerous
other constructive things. If still you people aren’t able to move away from
your obsession with the Muslims then why are’u beating the head instead of
heart where the disease lies. Work cooperatively with your self-perceived
enemies, the unfaithful Indians. And if still your patriotic blood rushes too
hot then cool it in the icy heights of Pakistan-occupied-Kashmir. If they can
do it for their religion in our part of Kashmir ,
then why can’t you?”
To
save his patriotic vainglory from the secular thundershowers, the young contestant
decided to leave, but not before ending on a very polite note, “Be it so tauji.
I tender apologies from the side of our organisation. Please, don’t forget to
cast your vote in my favour!”
On
another occasion Rishal Singh, the consensus candidate of lower castes, entered
the apolitical devil’s den. A short, black man with sharp eyes, he must’ve
thought at least he might be able to persuade and mellow down the dissenter
with the heat of his humility––in order to secure at least one vote outside his
harijan chunk.
To
this another political transgression into his home, the teacher gesticulated
with a guffaw:
“Welcome
Mr. Rishal Singh, our would-be first harijan pardhan of the village!”
A
humble and shy Rishal Singh couldn’t speak anything. He just muttered a wish to
the owner of apolitical house.
“Hey
Rishale, why do’u feel sorry and get blushed like this? Cheer up like an upper
caste fellow, man! Now, you’re an equal contestant. Drop your congenital humility
and fight for the liberation of society from casteism. Oh, sorry! I made a mistake
in suggesting that. A teacher as I’m. Just start preaching. I correct myself
now. Brandish your caste card and plead for votes. Caste my dear is the first
and foremost identity in India
After
that it was the turn of old Ramdhan, a hereditary Congress supporter, who
grinned so distinctly as if the iron-lady’s blessing hand perpetually hovered
over his humble head. Exuberantly taking care of the nuts and bolts of his
criticism, the teacher targeted this old man:
“I’m
sorry chachaji, my criticism of patriotic and casteist politics shouldn’t
turn you hopeful of my support to the Congress. Of the above two, former has
robbed charisma and the latter a huge chunk of dalit votes from the
fatigued khadi fabric of your party. You’ve a loyalty facet to your
support for Congress. As a boy I heard that an influential state Congress
minister once made you the chairman of the local cooperative society. You made
so much money out of that. Out of sheer gratitude you then took a vow to vote
for Congress till the end of your pedigree. Mind you chacha, this party
of yours is the root of corruption in politics. Divine legacy of the Mahatma has
been used for corruption, nepotism, cronyism and callous embezzlement of public
money. Corruption has been institutionalised during these fifty years of
Congress rule. To keep alive the poorly conceptualised ideals historical
blunders were committed. And now they weep and browbeat over this totally
hypothetical concept of secularism. The mother of all these little devils! Now
weeps over the misdeeds of these daughters and sons. Seeing the khaki
patriot it yells a warning to the Muslim, ‘Hey, go and hide! He’s coming to
smack you to pieces!’ Tell me, has it done anything except this foul cry in the
minorities’ ears? Every time a wrong of it is laid bare, they cry, ‘See, what’s
happened!’ Time’ll come when the Muslims’ll start fearing this word ‘secularism’
more than the trishul in the saffron brigade’s hand. Where was secularism
when five thousand Sikhs were butchered in the aftermath of iron-lady’s
killing? They say she was killed by the terrorists. But tell me, who were those
who killed five thousand innocent persons? Were they terrorists? No they’re not---because
they’re from a different class altogether! The Congress loyalists… humph!... who
wanted to prove their loyalty to the first-political-family by butchering as
many Sikhs as possible.”
Next
in line was Chander Bhan. Above sixty-five, but his strong chin and moustache
made him look properatively stronger, if not younger. ‘Village’s-first-graduate’
was his specialty. For this little literary distinctness of his, he beat his
chest in pride that he wasn’t hollow-brained like others. So his political
choice needed some brainy stuff. Hence, some leftist ideological pamphlets and
books formed the substratum of his promissorily hallucinating political world.
That exalted and grand utopian dream of the socialist state now constantly
wafted after the skin and anatomy of his political faith.
“Here
comes the comrade: the lone flag-bearer of red revolution. He became a
communist because he thinks being a one-eyed educated fellow among the blind
illiterates naturally makes him a perfect choice for becoming the heavenly
state’s representative. A state of leftist Gods! For which comrades commit
dirtiest of crimes chosen from all types of governments. Those mighty fables to
irrigate which millions have shed blood! Yours but has been a commendable
endeavour-–to break the leftist jinx of being limited to just two states in India
In
the deep recesses of the comrade’s heart intangibly hollow exigencies of the
vision of sophistication, the vision of God, boiled like hemlock. His soul must’ve
pined, ‘Why these aeonically wronged, plundered and enslaved souls still
misperceive the cosmic gala in a galaxy to be just a vulgar dance of moppets?’
“Do’u
know the communists’ present position in India West
Bengal . You people’ve just played havoc with ideology. See the
recent history. Except those marching rightist rioters, can you name a single
party with which you people haven’t joined hands? Armed cadres of Naxalites,
having failed to create revolution, are now poor common terrorists playing a
bloody part in the casteist politics of Bihar
and Andhra Pradesh. Come to any sort of coalition at the centre, one can be
sure to find communists in it. You people’re fit for just one thing. Go on
eating as much fish as possible in the cultural recesses of saline coastline in
Bengal and the beautiful, siesta-arising backwaters
of Kerala. Do it for the sake of your brains. So that it keeps on ticking
fastly, intellectually and off-beatly than others of the trade.”
Then
there were rest of the contestants, the infants in the political cocoons, who’d
just recently propended towards the election arena to gather some loot from the
funds bestowed to the headman for doing minor works at the grassroots level. Panchayati
Raj Act at least assured them that now there was to be a horizontal spread
of corruption, breaking its earlier shackles in vertical politico-bureaucratic
attics. After all there’re about six lakh villages in India
The
lone critic addressed them anecdotally:
“Here’re
the new entrants! They’ve heard so much about the political fortunes. Like
little hungry larvae they too have preyed upon the smallest bait at lowest step
of the ladder. They’ll now fight like dogs for these few crumbs. Does anyone of
you know what Panchayati Raj means? Subjects under it? Role and responsibilities?
Position in the hierarchy? In this big political pond you’re being fed like
little fish only to be eaten later by big sharks. They’ll make you-–the
politicians at the higher hierarchies-–aspire and think like a politician, so
that you start doing all the political dirt-work for them at the grass-roots
level. I pity you, all of you!”
His
depoliticising verbal carnage was such that neither they could cry nor laugh at
each other. At least there was a wide, crabbedly twitching consensus among them:
‘His was a hopeless case of political infertility.’ After that none of them
attempted an encore. Hence, without any bruises the campaign moved ahead as it
was expected.
Now
day and night the small fries were engaged in glorious gossip. Ruche and lushy
saturnalians were in full political fervour. Rickety and ramshackle chauvinism
of earlier sarpanch elections this time was replaced by the facetious
fusillade of a fully formal election campaign. With pinpoint precision the contestants’d
taken big inspirational cues from the previous assembly elections. Posters
bearing catchy slogans and candidates’ photographs almost plastered the walls.
More profits and boons were at stake in the zila parishad elections. Thus,
many campaigning vehicles were in the fray in this category.
One
candidate announced a discount from his spendthrift pockets on each wine bottle
purchased from the small wine outlet at the village bus stand. Drinking aficionados
were thus having a gala time. Enthusiastic cynicism of the drunkards now became
a nightlong issue.
Our
blessed soul which departed on the eve of assembly elections-–which made us
conclude that at least he was spared of the last whip-–now got politicised. A neighbour candidate of the dead (who was in
a fair chance of winning the elections) was drawn into a dirty political
controversy involving his past quarrel with the dead man. Opponents were
showing a wreathful concern for the sacrilegious punch at the unfortunate
sufferer when he was counting his last helpless days. By raking up this
time-barred past, they wanted to break the pledged political unity of the candidate’s
locality. Also, the lower caste people were being reminded how mercilessly with
a casteist tone this fellow rebuked them (the poor landless ones) whenever they
happened to be in the near vicinity of his fields just to cut grass from the field
paths, dividers and embankments.
The
night before election was impassively long and drawn out with an air of drab
conspiracy. Each candidate was hearing very strange rumours about himself. Rishal
Singh, the lower caste candidate, had sold off his candidature to the highest
bidder. People of Dhanak and Bhangi communities were in the glum
of nightmarishly nervous energy. Everybody conversant with the mystique
intrigues of village politics knew this was the votebank which could be very
easily and bankably taken into an intoxicating stride. The economic position
and caste status of these socially marginalised people had made them lame-duck
voters, without any choice of theirs. While rest of the people had the status
to go to sleep without worrying about vote-mongers barging into their houses in
the dark of night; these poor untouchables of the past were, however, very
happily open to the very same thing. So they were taking it as a festivity to
spend the time with influential people of the farming community, and that too
in the shy, humble, archaically caste-ridden air inside their little, dirty
shelters.
They
were the easiest of prey. Yet it was a tough task to gobble-down this soft
cake, because it was an open competition for grabs. Whoever possessed the
political acumen to keep them baited till the very last moment was to emerge
victorious.
During
the last elections, a candidate jailed many of them in his poultry farm where
they’d the liberty to kill and eat as many chickens as they wanted and drink to
their farthest limits. In the morning they were dumped---all of them senseless
and choiceless---in the polling booths to get the formalities done on the
ballot paper. These very voiceless, choiceless votes proved to be the deciding
factor in a hotly contested election.
Now,
on this last deciding night there were rumours that supporters of a particular
candidate were standing aguard around the locality of these prized voters. They
were beating anyone from the opposition trying to sneak into the forbidden
territory, where chickens were being riotously fed to sacrifice the eaters at
the altar of democracy in the morning.
It
was such a fraudulent night. None of the contestants and their core groups of supporters
slept. Insatiable vengefulness of the conspiracy-witch was doing ruinously
excessive rounds. Laden with huge stocks of wine, the supporters were wandering
in the streets so that anyone could be boozed up at the littlest of a hint.
Murky persistence of rumours and half-truths ate into the souls of two
candidates as their desperately disbelieving ears heard they were sitting down
in the support of a new-found ally. (Here sitting down means ordering one’s
supporters to vote in the favour of the new-found ally.)
A wooden-faced baldie emerged victorious. On his
thanks-giving sortie his denying looks already seemed in a tug-of-war with the
eternal optimism lurking on the faces of flannelled fools.
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