11
Politicians:
The Eternal, Immoral Status-quoists
of the
Public Woes
It was early morning.
Six or seven monks in red-ochre robes, hennaed beards and their hair plaited in
numerous little braids were wandering in the streets shouting in full
religious-rhyme, “Monks and the elephant have arrived! Elephantwale baba,
mai give some clothes or money!”
The bulky female, her
monk owners called her Champa, was slowly moving with subtle rhythm. Various
coloured flowers had been painted on its huge body. Floral designs and patterns
on her broad brow, ears and both hind-legs evinced the painting caliber of its
monk riders. Palpebral sketches around its small eyes made it look like the
cute queen of the tusker kingdom. But in contradiction to all this endearing appearance,
huge stash on its back made it look cumbersomely crowned; as if it solely bore
the worldly weight of its owner monks.
Two big brass bells,
hanging down the belly on both sides, made fastidious temple chimes, as she
moved slowly with her intoxicated tread, while the monk-cum-mahout riding atop
the mendicant friars’ earthly possessions gave it soft commands. The monks
swarmed the doors like a pack of locusts, forcing the women of the houses to
donate clothes to Lord Ganesha. And if someone appeased their alms-asking-hearts
they would forcibly take her to the blessing trunk of the female elephant. Much
to the petrification of small human female, the mountainous sis swayed her
trunk above the head seeing stars in the broad daylight.
However, one thing
was missing in the whole spectacle as the monk-troupe blowing the conch-shell
to grab attention, wended its way through the streets. Thrilling enthusiasm of
the children following it was not up to the mark like on previous such
occasions. In fact the rowdyism entailing the elephant had shrunk considerably
this time-–both qualitatively and quantity wise. Because best elements of
hooliganism beaming with their scuffing
clamour and prancing manoeuvres were gathered before the High school since the
day break because it was the polling day, November first to be precise-–a
public holiday both on account of the date of state formation as well as the
elections. In this land of public holidays, the state election commission
giving a rare example of ‘concernedly responsible body’ had fixed the polling
date on this public holiday so as to save another working day draining down the
wastage sewer. The state government had lodged a protest against this sane
dictation from the election governing body, because it took away another
holiday of boom and bust, when a maximum mass could’ve been jotted down in the
name of campaigning on this politically utilisable day.
The morning had definitely
mothered a winter infant. A cool south-western breeze sailed down playful wavelets
across the pond water and when they crossed the shiny zig-zag diamond-–or did
it seem like a little pearly continuum?-–formed by the slanting, rising sunrays
from the southern quarter of the eastern horizon, the shining puddle seemed to
crown the lake-like pond.
With the arrival of
winters many more species of migrant birds had arrived in the pond. Time was
there when the pond was fully open for them to feed, to breed, to quack, to
flibber their wings. But that was only when the pond was used for only one
purpose-–drinking and wallowing place for the buffaloes. But then it started to
serve another purpose as well three years ago as the village panchayat
gave it on lease for pisciculture. So, now the birds’ liberty had been
considerably checked, because fishmongers like cormorants, swans, herons and
egrets mingled with ducks, wagtails and waders and numerous other non-harming
species registered the whole pack in the unwanted list of the watchman. The old
man knew it very well who the real culprits were, but then one can’t segregate
birds under such discriminations. So, the loud burst of the watchman’s thwacking
tong shooed them away all jumbled-mumbled in a birdie mass in the sky. After
having an airy escapade they downed again onto the water forgetting the
desperate human-made noise. On some occasions even docile ducks became
sticklers, particularly when the fish seeds or larvae were just put in the
water. These soft, tiny, insecty things were easily preyed upon by the ducks.
So, gone were the
days when bird-swarms flapped with unhindered pleasure in the pond’s calm
waters throughout the winters. When under the dispassionately euphoric rays of
a January sun they thronged the big water spread in gloriously teeming
thousands, so happily away from their summer Himalayan and Central Asian
abodes; when in the foggy mornings one could hear the riotous symphony of their
quacks, chirps, hooting, howling and flapperings; when they bred unchecked in
the dense water grass along the pond margins.
Now the unsparing
fish-work completely unaware of the ducks’ role in a wetland ecosystem was
trying its best to calm down the birdie disturbance in the commercial waters,
because to us majority of our perceptions about a duck are bestowed by a few
tiny facts like ‘a duck stays and floats in water,’ or ‘it quacks’ etc.
With our greater
rationale born of a bigger brain, why do we care about the feathery world of
poor birds? After all they are just belittled cogs in some vaguely genial-–almost
impractically artistic or aesthetic-–scheme of nature. So, who cares about the
silent fact that the ducks in their unrestricted sojourn here could’ve been
useful in weed and pest management in the adjoining paddy fields without disaffecting
the crop in any way? And in reality also, the poor birds had been helping the
farmers by sneaking into the fields during nights to prey upon the weeds and
rest of their ilk.
Now, gauge the extent
of their operations. About hundred ducks on their night-long vociferous tryst
against the pest family can turn 4000 to 5000 square metres of paddy crop free
from the bugging trouble-makers within a week or so. But we can’t know (or don’t
want to know) such nuanced facts holding the sinews of nature together. We
think that their role is just limited to unnecessarily flapping their wings in
the water. In addition to that, constant
straddling and raking by their webbed paws makes the soil muddy, thus, checking
the sprouting of weeds. It also clogs the root aeration thus mustering up the
crop’s growth. Above all, their sternly pecking bills prey upon stem borers,
hoppers, mole crickets, aphids, cockles, fox-tails and many other diasporic
subjects of the pest and weed kingdom. So the ducks aren’t just fluffy water-toys,
because that supposition leaves all of us as mere kids. Now children will be
quite happy with that tag for the whole of humanity. And if grown-ups protest
then they will have to accept few more knowledgeable facts like their beaks
aren’t just meant to foolishly hen-peck in each other’s featherings. In addition
to this tiny fact providing play as well as a duckish perception to children, their
motherly beaks eat up the golden snails, root grubs and other bugs in the
marshy conditions grisly stuck around the seedlings’ base like parasites
suckling away the nutrition. And one still larger, unplayful bit of information
about the ducks: their wings aren’t just meant for flying; in nuanced addition
to that their maternal flappings disturb and sway the crop and thus allowing
the greater penetration of light and air to prevent infestation for the better
health of the plantlets.
So much of voluntary
labour done by the winged visitors, still no trace of it in the humans’
knowledge chambers! This is the neglecting credo of human society: impassionedly
stern bigwigs of the twin kingdoms of flora and fauna.
Now this morning a
big crowd had gathered before the High school which was to serve as the polling
booth. A pack of winged visitors swirled over from the northern side in their
typical aero-dynamic ‘V-shaped’ pattern to assist them during long flights. It
aspirationally swooped down over the endearingly smiling waters of the pond.
Frail hands of the watchman tightened their grip around the firecracking tong.
Standing upright, anxiously looking at the birds just about to land in the
waters, he struck the gunpowder filled end with all his might on a brick. With
a loud bang and lot of smoke his watchman’s manoeuvre promptly took away the
winged visitors’ natural right over the pond. Time was exactly eight o’ clock. The
pond upkeeper’s thud had signaled the start of the most important ritual in the
great game of democracy as the policeman opened the small gatelet at the foot
of the huge school gate, allowing the first voter to walk into the trap.
With one sound, the pond
caretaker’s frail figure took away the liberty of still frailer ones, and with
the same sound he joined the voice of liberty in its archetype lecherous,
puerile hoot jangling for the people’s hopes and aspirations. The poor ducks
continued their march in the southern direction once again forming their ‘V-shape’
flying pattern; their sullenly sober birdie brain hoping to come across some
unrestricted puddle of water. Similarly, the people had started swarming the
booth, mystified by the political aroma and beatitude, hoping to witness some
magical fructification out of this most potent wizardry.
Yes, this hazarded
hope never dies! The ducks for a place
to land, to feed, to breed, to survive; and the public for good and clean representatives,
who at least take the trouble to chronicle a sympathy with ears to hear the
voice of the deprived masses. Swashbuckling noise of the watchman’s tong had
scared away the ducks, but its regrouping on the way further after some time
showed an exemplifying parallelism with the five long belittling political
years, which betrayed the voters’ all hopes of landing in some safe waters in
lieu of their priceless votes. Hats off to the people! After all hadn’t they
expeditiously survived the explosion for five years, during which the present
government colossally smoked around their hopes and aspirations. After bearing
all that shock, the forgiving masses were now once again regrouping to take a
political flight hoping to land in some politically correct waters.
Along the front
windows of the school, the polling agents had set up their hawker-style booths,
stands and stalls for political shopkeeping. Party flags, posters and placards
of the candidates and other propaganda advertising symbols cluttered this
chaotic market place with full political ambience. They were leaving no stone unturned
with their salesmanship as they handed over slips mentioning the voter’s name,
number and the ballot booth number; gyrating beats of their hearts were
counting the number of voters who got their voting vouchers from them, and this
in turn gave some implicit indication about the support base of their candidate,
because people normally get their slips prepared by the agents of the candidate
they are likely to vote for. However, there was one factor which was constantly
driving a wedge between their calculation and the uncertain result. It was the
people’s sweet-sour tendency to cheat by getting their slips from one agent and
voting for someone other’s candidate.
Among the conflicting
straddles of a largish crowd some policemen were discernible, trying to
stonewall the tussling chaos rearing its head with each passing minute. Hordes
of women, attired in best of their clothes, were pouring out on road from the
street between the schools. Their traditional songs sounded autumnally lamenting
lyrics in the morning stricken with disputatious air. But still, to the coy village women the
election day provided a rare opportunity when they could dress well, do some
make-up in place of their as usual addlement born of fields, cattle, household
chores and domestic violence . To many of them the day provided a chance to
feel the air inside a classroom for the first time and sense the ditsy rhythm
of the place from where the perkily cramming chorus of their children reached
their proud maternal ears, while they were engaged in a mauling hardwork in the
nearby fields.
The monk was standing
before his hut. His citizenry of the God’s state obviously deprived him of a
voting right in this bedraggled state of the earthly humans. Standing on the
parados, he felt himself cruelly castrated from the highways and byways of an
earthly world booming with its fudging beatitude. Ochrous, long triangular flag
at the top of his reclusory was flying in the direction of the school; its
pointed flying end verily attracted to the place where politics was being
played; the pennon’s raddling sway to the political rattan.
The undomiciled
watchman-–thus the second voteless fellow on the mound–-was preparing chapattis
for his breakfast or lunch, whatever one may prefer to call it. In all
verisimilitude he was politically uninitiated. His senses in their complete
unattractedness to the poll scene gave inkling of the fact that his fingers
might’ve never borne the tokenism of a voters’ ink. His neighbour meanwhile
threw copiously hideous looks at the smoke rising from the other side of his
neighbour’s hut, angry with the God that ‘if so many in this world have so much’
he gave a jealous look at the esoterically extolling mob around the school ‘then
why can’t I’ve a little elevation of earth in the name of Thee?’
There, amidst the
scene of real hectic activity, a voice was affecting a cleavage. His baritone
idioms percussioned a revolt against the politics’ sweeping extols.
“Don’t cast your
vote! It’s not as cheap as you people have made it to be!” from his pulpit he
exhorted a passing horde of women, whose looks turned in a sheepish
predicament.
“Oh, don’t bother
about him. The teacher has gone mad,” a polling agent blossomed at the cusp of
courtesy.
“What good have you
got in return of your votes? You still have to fetch water from two kilometres
away. Can’t sleep at night after a hard day because of the mosquitoes, as there
is no electricity. As state subjects you work day and night and in return your
children rot illiteracily in these government run schools which’ve become a
stigma in the name of education,” the man chronicled a groaning tale.
The women however
couldn’t understand the feminine version of public woes at the hands of an
inefficient administration and vampired politics. Realising that his hoarsy
throat had completely failed to disaffect the superfluously salacious aura of
the political travesty, Ram Singh jumped down from the brick heap and resorted
to his last weapon.
“They do nothing to
the rapists!” he quailed a pleading.
But even this
vilifying fact didn’t sound obnoxious enough to affect a poll boycott by even a
single female heart in the group. Only one or two of them looked back with a
mild anguish, some giggled and one of them put an end to the matter by quipping,
“Masterji has gone mad.”
Rebuked by the apathy
of unquestioning female woes, the anti-election campaigner turned to other
general, unctuous lacunae.
“See the condition of
this road. It’s seen five such circuses, still no improvement in its condition.
They just eat away the sanctioned money in crores,” he drew attention to the archetype
lecherousness. “Where’s that pond ghat for which the district authorities
handed over one lakh rupees to the sarpanch almost three years ago?” he
pointed to the entrance to the pond, where the brick embankment had been broken
and cattle hoofs were fastly cutting the roadside earth into the pond’s water.
But each and every
politically hypnotised soul seemed so self-opinionated that the un-political
crusader’s words seemed asininely internecine. His irritated and dismayed words
had no effect on the ears whose eyes had never seen anything begetting from the
state’s initiative during their life time. It was just like weeping for the extinct
dodo, while nobody knew what dodo was and what extinction meant. And if someone
understood, it was simply a boisterously lackluster fact. What if the final dodo
had died a good century back? Everyone has to die one day. Why should we weep
about a bird? Similarly, why should we cudgel up our brains about the politico-administrative
discrepancy?
But being as he was,
a Young Turk in the army of great Bengali, he was now just a representative of
the fag end of the school maker’s once effulgent movement. A disgruntled Pradhanji
had died about five years ago. Helplessly lying on the death bed, the
85-year-old’s once vigorously bulky figure could no more fight against the
caustic reality, and when his eyes closed for the last he’d very clearly seen
the disembarkation of the institution he’d irrigated with his blood and sweet-–disorganised,
factionalism in the working committee, severe resource crunch, so few selfless
volunteers in the pipeline, and to top it all the state education board waiting
like a spider to eat up the terminally webbed sprawling institution. While the
head beetle lay devitalised due to the old age, no more able to fight for the
jewel of his dreams, people wrote a hasty eulogy and the government braced up
efforts to lay claim to the old man’s educational property. Within a couple of
years of his death, the school’s name came to be written as Government Higher
Secondary School
Taking heart from the
same amorous light, Ram Singh-–primary teacher in the great man’s institution-–now
transferred (as a government primary teacher) to the adjoining smaller school,
was still alive to the social sensitivity which took him on numerous forays
into the politico-administrative offices at the district headquarters in the
wake of sharp degradation of the schools under government occupation. Earlier,
the great man would dash down to the spot wherever there was a softest
complaint from a single brick, to get it repaired under his filial supervision.
But now the orphan institution looked tellingly tattered-–just within five
years from the great man’s demise! And his lonesome follower seemed just a pale
figure trying to take revenge against the political apathy.
Unavailingly the
teacher had been running from pillar to post, adducing the school’s plight and
other stinging chinks in the state’s scheme of rural administration. But except
false promises and some excerpts from the sympathy book, anything else was not
even worthy of hazarding an expectation. Completely frustrated with the fraudulent
impropriety of the administration, he could only think of forming an Election Boycott
Morcha. Not too many people showed interest in this petaline effort against the
thorns. Even the very few people who’d formed the working committee to work out
a plan for anti-electioneering deserted him as they very easily walked into the
trap laid by the lissome campaigners. It left the harbinger a poor figure
tantalisingly latching on to his mad ideas. Some even cruelly jested that he
was haunted by the great Bengali’s spirit. So, standing on his mound of
shattered dreams, ignorant of the festivity of casting a vote, to all the
political revelers he seemed a lunatic whose soul was in an internecine
discrepancy with the surroundings.
So, today he was
alone like the Godly legacy of the ‘Father of the Nation’, while there was huge
excitement among the amnesiac villagers (whole country with its neglecting
credo in the case of the Mahatma) after a dull cocoony state for five long
years (roughly about 45 years for the country after the departure of the modern
incarnation of God).
Aren’t we the people
whose negligence of the Mahatma’s principles equals the nasty limits of
atheism? Aren’t we totally fractured from our most immediate greatest legacy? The
great Bengali’s soul should not rue the criminal neglect of its light, because
the fate of the greatest soul of modern India India
“Have you heard
Gandhi, the name?
Yes, the one who made
pauperisation his fame!”
For the great soul’s
sake we shouldn’t open the pandora box and keep us glued to the polling scene.
There was an
exploding round of sloganeering, as an ideal persona of a politician stepped
out of a car, and straightway headed for his polling agents vendoring by the
school wall. He was the standing MLA of the constituency, who’d toppled everybody’s
expectations by winning as an independent candidate in the previous elections.
After the government formation he was easily purchased by the Chief Minister as
a junior member in his cabinet. But this time the witty CM’s pre-poll coalition
with the rightist nationalist party had shattered the dreams of the standing MLA
for another term in the assembly. So back he was to his independent ways
against the draconian injustice meted out to him.
“Aaha! Mr. Jaypal you!”
unpolitical straggler spiffed up his tirade. “So at least we’re privileged to
see the face of our representative.”
The politician’s
goons instantly showed the inclination to go apolitically haywire. He but
forbade them, brick by brick cogitating the political implications of any off-hand
manoeuvre. The offence was nothing in his terms; he would’ve just smiled even
if the protestor had spat into his face.
From his turnstiled
precincts the lone campaigner further instigated. “Now you’ll behave like a
beggar. Say that time was too short for you to work out the problems. That you
need another chance to serve the people,” Ram Singh (literally meaning lion of
Lord Rama) arrowed his words.
But the politician
was cool as a cucumber-–the fury should not surface in the open, otherwise
little will be left for behind-the-scene audacity. So he once again smiled
picturesquely.
“Now you smile. Why
not? It’s the smile after digesting at least five crore rupees.”
The smile promptly
vanished as if angry for bringing down the figure. His face seemed serious as
if he was mulling over the exact figure of his hard-earned money.
“My God! Why aren’t
you afraid of God?” the man moaned. “You even gobbled down the one lakh rupees
given to you by a poor Dayanand for getting a job for his graduate son in the
state police. He died of shock. You are his killer... you killed him...” the
blamer’s face burst of redness.
The crowd meanwhile had
been joined by one more spectator. The monk, unable to control his heart’s
gyrations under the spell of coercive bogles let loose by this spectacle, had
stuttered down to the place, allowing himself to be caught into the mob’s
pickle.
It was now clearly
going beyond the limits of democracy, which even an election time politician
couldn’t tolerate. Thus, the agents ran, few from the leader’s coterie joined
them. In the melee the crusader got some slaps and bruises, which the deft politician
minimised lest he might lose even a single vote. After all, aren’t there so
many other occasions to settle scores. And moreover, a single slap on the cheek
of a good human being is million times insulting than a thorough fist-work
battering and bruising the whole body of a bad one. Also, isn’t it a fact that
politicians temporarily leave their adversaries with mountains of interest to
be taken at an appropriate-–politically unharming-–time in the future. So, in order
to enable the voting crowd forget even the tit-bits of this trivially untoward
incident, the cavalcade sped away from the scene to reach some other village.
A lampoon group,
brick by brick synonymous with the devil, enjoyed the teacher’s humiliation to
the farthest fringe of its evil jestery. Its components were the main
protagonists of the chaos which was ever rearing its ugly head during the Ramleela.
The joking sense
arose in the Sadhu as well. Poor teacher had stopped, his humiliated
face incurring a halo of defeat. It looked as if his energy of rebellion was
transformed into the defaming laughter from the crowd.
“Poor man he was
preaching like Mahatma Gandhi,” the monk charred the teacher’s remaining honour
by this repulsive murmur. “See what he gets in return. Some bruises like Gandhi
used to get,” he mused to a bystander who nodded heavily, happy that the old
foe as well as some distant incarnation of his legacy had been battered and
bruised in the same totem.
“Preaching is only
for the sadhus!” he declared nosily, which wasn’t heard specifically by
any ear in the commotion.
Another political
vehicle stopped. Once again a politician got down. The monk was standing by an
agents’ booth whose decoration had lots of colours from his robe, the flag on
his hut and the placards all over the politician’s vehicle. Ram Ratan, his
apparel and attire shining like the armour of his faith, straightway headed to
boost the morale of his people. There was a sudden spurt in his politico-religious
enthusiasm, as he saw the majestic medallion of his party’s honour book
standing by his supporters. For a few moments the ascetic seemed to him just a
mendicant-mannequin employed as a living cutout of their ideology. But as he approached
near, the religioner’s genuine credo struck his myth believing political-modernism.
The pale-faced
politician got a rush of blood to his mask. His narrow, light eyes abandoned
their inhibitions. Long and thin neck now seemed ready to bear the burden of
religion, nation and its masses. His sharp nose and finely, firmly set chin
looked more attractive now. He was heavily garlanded. Unburdening himself of a
few strings of flowers he put them reverentially around the religioner’s neck.
“Sadhu maharaj
be the immortal one! Bless me with victory, maharaj,” without any
inhibitions the gracious politician bent down to touch his feet, but in the
process almost hit against the ascetic’s wood.
The monk wasn’t quite
prepared for such a high profile devotee, so he almost stumbled over the
prostrating politician.
“God bless you with a
pealing victory!” the ritualist managed a blessing, his ears eavesdropping on
some hope buried deep inside this figure swathed in costly khadi clothes.
A few minutes later
he was proudly sitting on a chair. Expeditiously the politician ordered tea for
the scion of their ideology’s substratum. With the political tapestry over his
reliquary, the monk sat puffed up like a balloon holding on to the maximum air
inside. In between his humble affirmatives to the politician’s flippant tongue,
he stole tiny glances at the women group’s festively bestirred steps to the
polling booths. Piggybacked on the company of the politician his hopes soared
very high, as he got nimble thoughts about how all of them will prostrate
before him for favours, for magic, for healing powers, all of which will be
taken by the villagers in the same way like they easily wear the politics and
its promises on their sleeves. There across the pond his flag of asceticism was
fluttering more vigorously now.
“Maharaj, which dera do
you belong to?” essentiality of an answer broke the godhead’s reverie.
The God’s servant was
well aware of the prestige fetching legacy of his first discipleship.
Amid the polling
affray the monk drew an introspective quatrain over his face. “Bhagat, I’m
from the ashram of Sadhguru Parmanand,” he shifted himself on the chair.
The politician didn’t
need a second reference to recognise the monk’s guru. A very, very old-–archaically
old-–Sadhguru was still surviving in some corner of the same state. By
now his spirituality had drawn its own myth.
“Oh Sadhguru
Parmanand! But he’s too old and does not meet anyone these days,” Ram Ratan
rued over the unavailability of the old war-horse on the path of spiritualism
who had retired.
The fact was that the
old monk had spurned all efforts of the party’s state leadership to politicise
his largish religious bequest. “Have you ever been to Ayodhya, maharaj?”
the politician’s expression drew a dank due to the above fact, so he changed to
the more relevant topic.
The monk had heard
some smatterings about the breaking of some mosque there, but his knowledge
about the subject wasn’t enough for a politico-religious conversation on the
topic which was burning inside the host’s political heart.
Failing to fetch some
appeasing words from the Sadhu, the contestant himself pacified his
ruffled and agitated soul. “Ayodhya maharaj, Ayodhya! How can you be so
ignorant about it? Only the year before last, valiant defenders of our
religion, people like you, vanquished that blot on the face of Hinduism!”
searing rigmarole of the happenings got into his head and he sounded a bit
irreverent to the ignorant religioner.
“What a foolhardy
constituency I’ve been thrown into!” his soul pined, as the Sadhu looked
apologetically into the crowd.
Just then the Muslim
blacksmith, the small man with enormous hands, bulgingly glazed red eyes,
didactic lines across his lower cheeks and a muezzin’s goatee-–a typical
miyanji as the villagers jested–-chanced to saunter into the political
travesty. His knees having a slight arthritic pain and numbness due to the hard
work he performed while sitting by his anvil. So he was on a relaxing stroll.
“See, here comes the
Pakistani,” the politician kicked up his sagging spirits.
This mundane sleaze
directed at most of the Muslim subjects of India Pakistan India India
The Sadhu just
grinned at the politician’s remark, because he wasn’t aware of the intricacies
of a grisly narrowing down nationalism, religio-political organisations, breaking
of mosques, new-found mannequined bravery of the major religion of India,
Islamic terrorists and their godfathers spreading consternation throughout the
world to bring about an Islamic theocratic state, and many other things paneling
in and around.
“Miyanji, come
here! Sahib is calling you,” the polling agent, bedizened in the best of
a politically correct dress to impress the leader, barked above the dementia;
his otherwise meek voice acquired a booming baritone stature.
“Hello miyanji!
How’re you?” the politician accosted the blacksmith with a strange smile which’d
unfettered moorings in the lustrous halo of some newly discovered star.
“I’m O.K. janab!
Shukriya!” the
blacksmith bowed in courtesy and his pronounced lips parted for an effusive
smile.
“And what about your
brothers in Pakistan
“They’re also fine
there! But, I’ve more nice and happier brethren here,” clever blacksmith
chirpily quipped in his flowery Allahabadi accent.
From the politician’s
face feigned humour went adrift. The agitated tip of his tongue groped in the
mouth as if trying to find a cleft there.
“Do’u really love India
“Why... of course janab!
Our Hindustan is worth loving. But if you ask
me to show or prove it, then I’m sorry, I can’t do that,” he replied adjusting
his frilled cap; while traces of sullenness graduated into the Muslim’s tone
which fed upon the enthusiastic spring in his heels.
“And if we ask to
show it then!” the politician asked with an airy movement of his nimble hands.
“Then order this air
to present itself before all of us to prove its existence. Ask the God to be
present here and now. And by the way, why don’t we call the Mother India to
decide who loves her and who doesn’t,” Urdu’s endearing lacing in his protest
made it so strong and docile at the same time.
Rustic villagers who
couldn’t delve too deep into such ideological compunctions, laughed from the
blacksmith’s side, taking his gentle retort to be a great winning pun.
“If you people love Hindustan that much, then why have you become terrorists
in Kashmir ? There at the whims and fancies of Pakistan
“They mightn’t love India
This stream of Hindu
consciousness struggling in imputation with the Muslims, Pakistan Kashmir embroidered over both
these issues, and the resultant Hindu rightist politico-religious organizations;
till now, all these conflicting straddles were known to the illiterate
religioner in their mild, uncribbing intensity. But now the politician’s,
someone so respected and influential, sarcastic tirade against the Muslim
blacksmith deposited in his mind a new version; some definite repulsive strands
into the epochal, instinctive loath of a Hindu religioner at the mere sight of
a Mohammedan (or vice-versa). So, he now realised and smelled the religious patriotism
reaching into his wide, hairy nostrils; the lines changing into wrinkles around
the corner of his eyes went somewhat awry in contraction with this new
information; his full bearded chin sipped some juice of this new dharma.
With an
enthusiastically hateful look-–much obliged as he was to the good and nice
politician for proffering so much respect to his starving, begging mendicancy-–he
turned his face to the mound. ‘You fool, you were not entitled to break that!’
echoed in his mind. The undefined angst he felt at the time of breaking of that
Hindu pitcher by a Muslim, now turned into a fanatical rage, a heresy, a crime.
The monk’s chimera
was broken only when the protector of Hindu pride in this safest of land-–because
there were almost negligible poky-weeds here in this countryside constituency-–prostrated
for the second time and left with his accolading fraternity.
The crowd meanwhile
was noisily going on a fool’s errand, their amnesiac voters’ minds now
completely forgetful of the one man Election Boycott Morcha’s useless
enterprise. The growing disenchantment with the elected representatives, which
the voice of Ram Singh ‘calling a spade a spade’ symbolised, had no penetration
in this part of the country where rude humour and ignorance easily rolled over
such inscrutable issues like state functions, role and responsibility of the
elected representatives and constitutional rights of the disparate masses. So,
the formation of government had become an inevitable myth, which was to be
brought about through the ritualistic performance of elections. Beyond this the
people’s psyches were completely shut off to all other chattel of democracy,
which was at the plunderers’ stake through inefficient, unaccountable and
nontransparent governance.
* * * *
Tawny, humorous,
nationalistic chidings by the Hindu rightist politician, which of course served
no purpose other than pouring some oil upon troubled waters, personified an
effort on part of the Hindu dramatists to create a false show of valiant
puppetry to counter the jihad from the neighbouring Islamists.
Sluggishly awakening and evolving sectarian attitude of the Sadhu
typified the new version of Hinduism based upon the politically conscious local
gurus and subsects claiming their sub-infeudation to gargantuanly
aspirational big sects, ashrams and shankaracharyas.
Should they (the Muslims) clutter their support around the Communists
who had supported the Muslim League’s communally rabid demand of Pakistan China Pakistan
And where do the
Muslims fit in this newly spangled majoritarianism’s vociferous tryst? For
simplicity’s sake, take the district of our tale. Three-four thousand of them,
socio-economically backward, engaged in petty occupations like small retailing,
vendors, tailors, blacksmiths and butchers, had no role and responsibility in
the jihadi python which was coiling around the north-western border.
This would be well exemplified by the fact that even a well informed Hindu knew
more about Islam than any individual from this mostly illiterate community.
Their silently
unstark position in the whole game can be gauged even from a little incidental conversation
between the blacksmith and an educated young man from the village. The former
on being asked by the latter about the Prophet and some other things related to
Islam found himself at a loss of knowing even the mundane Islamic words. So,
instead of adding to the conversation ‘the religioner by birth’ just kept on
reddening an iron rod in his furnace. His unphilandering concentration indicated
that work was his real religion.
Humorous idlers as
well as farming thespians of this nondescript countryside, sore with Pakistan
But all this was said
in such an easy and undemented way, that thousand such remarks would still
weigh lesser on a common Muslim’s mind than a few phrases read out by a
politician like Ram Ratan from the rightists’ ideology book.
Also, when it came to
the humour aspect of this desi culture, their fabled sword of pranks
fell equally severely even upon the head of a Hindu religioner-–mind you,
unprejudicedly even on a full time professional religioner. Validating the
above point, an easy minded farmer sitting by the side of miyanji
working on his farming tools, let loose his pranking tongue on a young monk
from the Gorakh Nath sect lumbering along his huge and heavy staff:
“Sadhu maharaj,
you have fucked a whole tree trunk for that devil’s penis in your hands!”
Some people loitering
near the barber shop and the miyanji’s rolled over in clouds of laughter, as the young ascetic
thieved away from the scene in order to avoid the joking ordeal whose lid had
been just opened: the knight of puns who once again raised his head, mustering
up all his washing prowess through breach-busting manners of laughing and all
the funnily abusive versions of obscenities.
There on the other
side of the border hard-core Islamists and murderous jehadis were
collecting money and bodies from every pious Muslim family to kill more and
more Indian soldiers in Kashmir, spread communal venom through vast veins and arteries
across a secular, united India and thus nullify the thousand years of
Indo-Islamic cultural evolution.
And how does Hinduism
react in stimuli to this real sword of fundamentalist Damocles hanging over its
head? Some seemingly coward, unharming, and non-weapon yielding religious
bodies (save some sticks and rusted little tridents) raising the alarm, trying
and pretending to be politically aggressive to save the motherland of Hinduism.
But such efforts resulting in nothing else, except the fissiparous heat of this
ideology–-with the propensity of a hydrogen bomb-–drawing a communal wedge many
times ghastly than the two-nation theory at the time of independence; raising
the possibility of further disintegration of India in the unpredictable future.
Mayhem-centric policies of Pakistan Pakistan
The trident, the kamandla,
the chariot, morale boosting Godly chanting, chariot tours, curse-ordaining
clarion calls of nationalism whenever India loses a cricket match to Pakistan:
all this in opposition to the AK-47s and other deadliest weapons of terrorism!
A travesty and farce on the surface of it. But beneath the seeming surface, all
these trinket bickerings were in fact unbelievably venomous and deadly for the
fifteen crore Muslims of India. It was million times more effective than all
the jehadi ammunition of bombs and bullets---religious figures flying to
the politicians (and vice-versa) for the rescue operation, puns and pranks
being directed at the unharming Muslims in and around the area. And they called
it aggressive and a resurgent Hinduism! What could it result into? Maybe one
day, whole Indian Muslim populace, boiling in its typical Islamic anger will
demand a different homeland. If someone asks ‘why this farcical repeat of
history’; then the answer is ‘just politics’.
Politicians need
issues to garner as many votes as possible. So they prop up many at the whims
of their political fancies. What’s however sad is the fact that Pakistan India
Earlier it was the
turn of old iron-lady of the Congress to give a chance to Pakistan Punjab . We were saved from a doomed situation there by
the khalsa bravery of two lions of Punjab ...
of India Delhi
Even in this state
where there was almost no soil to be dug up for a new political flooring with
its narrow and sharp nationalistic spadework, it could hope-–by its hollow
chanting of patriotic mantras-–to exploit the national, patriotic
undercurrent subtly flowing through the vast countryside, born out of the fact
that almost ten, twelve percent soldiers in the Indian defence services were
from this state only. Many of these young valiant fighters were deployed in Kashmir to combat the cruelly tough and treacherous
militancy.
* * * *
Within a week of the
elections the results were declared. Huge uproars lambasted the gloomily staid
countryside air. People were preying upon any conveyance to get to the district
city. Tractor trollies brimming with people dancing to the steadfast beats of
drums dashed down the broken road making stridently intemperate noise. They
were going there to enjoy the post-result saga dauntingly unfolding at the
city. The winner Ram Ratan-–who else
could it have been if the incumbent CM had himself campaigned for his placid
partner?-–was to be lovingly doted on with slogans of immortality, cuddly congratulations
and of course efforts on the part of his supporters (who became manifold once
he won) to leave a last permanent impression on his victoriously dreamy eyes.
They were expected to
return around midnight .
Passing through the road by the village, the winner was to be carried to his
native village at the farthest end of the constituency, where an unprecedented
welcome awaited for the patriotic son of the soil. Houses by the roads which
bore the posters of losing candidates almost shook apprehensively under the
spell of these vibrantly taunting drum-beats and throat-splitting sloganeering
as the cavalcades went strumming over the torn and tattered road.
An old milkman, a
bullish wrestler in his heydays but now an old wreck with a dissuading look and
colour gone capriciously tabby due to a haggling skin disease, was returning
from the city on his bicycle with two empty drums hanging down both sides of the
carrier making vitriolic little defeated noises in protest against the loudly
booming victorious chimes. Throughout the journey his old age woes had got
chilly burns due to the furtively serrated victorious shouts about the
immortality of the winner. The old man’s mourning liver was stuck in his throat
for the defeat of his favourite wrestler candidate. In such a torrid state when
he reached the school, some persons from the village were fretting and fuming
at an old and rickety Maruti 800 car. Under the hectic heartbeats of the man on
the wheel the engine had baulked down. To forget their frustration they had a
victorious taunt at the struggling old man.
“Ram Ratan has won by
15000 votes!” one of them jubilated, boosting up the winning margin three fold.
“Say one lakh, you
left testicle of that weakling!” defeated strongman’s supporter settled the
score.
“Count the blots on
your skin, old sack and you’ll know the exact margin!” one of the
would-be-celebrating gang, who was sorting out the problem inside the messed up
engine, freaked out as if the problem was sticking somewhere on the old man’s
skin.
In retaliation the
obscenities laden milkman took up his empty milk drum from the bicycle and
threw it at the foe’s toe. Missing its target the iron vessel rolled into the
pond.
Elsewhere the diehard
supporters of the first loser (brawny independent contestant) were not able to
digest the defeat and they summed it like this:
“The Chief Minister
bribed the polling officers who expertly stage-managed ten percent bogus voting
in the first hour of the polling. And then counting itself was fudged.”
Lower caste supporters of the losing strongman were
shivering out of fear because very soon he was to take back the money; and
slaps, kicks, abuses as the interest.
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