When the food basket was opened, Chotu Singh was surprised to see what we were carrying. He may have thought we were going to tuck into some very special delicacies, and then he saw that we were carrying pretty much the same kind of food as is made in every household in the area, albeit much lower on oil and spices. I explained to Chotu Singh that it was impossible to accept a meal at one person’s house without offending ten other people. He thought about it for a bit, and then agreed. I also told him that doctors had asked me to avoid spicy, oily food for some time. And, since it was not possible to get such food at hotels or dhabas along the way, it was better for me to carry home-cooked food. I had been very sick from a combination of masala and my stress acids during the last stages of my Pachpadra round. The combination was deadly, and that was exactly how I had felt during that tour—like death—with all the acids accumulated in my stomach wanting to burst out. Since then, I was careful about what I ate, and when I ate it.
From Mandha, we took a shortcut along a dirt track to Khinya, for it was important to make up some of the lost time. The shortest route from Mandha to Khinya passed through some of the most spectacular lunar landscapes I have seen in Jaisalmer—a landscape visibly shaped by the fact that a large part of it had been under the sea for millions of years. The Khinya naadi (a naadi is a waterbody that is often man-made, so as to maximize rainwater storage) has a huge agore (the catchment area for the waterbody), intrusion into which will affect water flow and storage. This one must surely catch a lot of water—the number of cows in the village is a testament to that.
The confirmation of my candidature came in the form of a text message from Chitra, my wife. I could not have thought of a better messenger than her to give me this news. The message had been sent a good forty minutes before it got to me as I had been out of mobile network coverage area for quite a while. And it came as I was about to reach Seuva, with the sun low on the horizon. By coincidence, the meeting was to be held near a devi’s temple, and so it began with me lighting a jyot, for thanks as well as for blessings. A jyot in the desert is made up of pieces of dried coconut, with a lot of ghee, placed in a pyramidal shape on a metal stand so that the flame is well dispersed. I kept receiving messages and calls of good wishes well into the night. I had not thought that the candidature nomination would be such a thrill, but when I went to bed, I did get a sense of that, a little buzz.
8 March 2009
Today, I had to go to the other end of the district. While the Indira Gandhi Canal is towards the north of Jaisalmer district, my programme today was to be in the southern part, which is locally called Basya, and is a politically influential part of the Jaisalmer Assembly seat. I have always been wary of this area, because of a few silent ego clashes with the big shots, of whom there are many here. But, electorally, it has always been good for me, as all the marriage connections with my village bear on them ultimately. An uncle and a cousin have been married into socially prominent families of this area.
The shortest route from Jaisalmer town took me through the centre of the district, turning off left from the Khuri Road and past the thickest concentration of inland wind turbines. A local joke has it that the turbines are a tax escape for well-known persons, and they are continually pointed out to me as belonging to some cricketer or some film star. There is certainly some racket involved with the turbines, but I feel it has more to do with the energy produced than the taxes dodged.
The Basya route took me past the starkest reminders of the 2006 floods that had hit Barmer and Jaisalmer. To the right of the single-lane country road is the riverbed of the Harka River that had come back to life during the floods and, as the floodwater built up, taken many lives. As the floodwater picked up momentum, it had sliced the Moda sand dune in half, evidence of whose destruction can be seen even today. To cut such a large dune must have taken a lot of water with a lot of force behind it. It had even demolished the chhatri of Ram Singhji, a common ancestor of many of the local people. When I had come during the floods, they had remarked that the chhatri had stood undamaged through all the seasons of more than 360 years. Bhairon Singh Shekhawat, the former vice-president, had stopped his motorcade by the side of the road that year to observe the damage to the chhatri. I remembered his resilience on that day when he had faced the rigours of twelve hours on the road, despite his age.
Today, I stopped by the riverbed to pay respect to the chhatri that has been painstakingly restored to its original form. In the entire constituency, this must surely be the single most impressive community initiative, as the monies spent on it were all raised by donation from within the Basya area. The craftsmen employed for the restoration have carved and chiselled the golden-hued local stone to the same standards as those who, hundreds of years ago, had made the original. The final result is very impressive indeed, and the puja for the formal inauguration of the chhatri is to be held in early April.
Shortly after I crossed the chhatri, a Bolero coming from the opposite direction flashed its lights and stopped ahead of us. Some of the more prominent Congress leaders of the district alighted, all of them a little deferential to Abdullah Fakir who got out from the front seat passenger side. The younger son of Ghazi Fakir, Abdullah is a member of the local zilla parishad. The family has considerable influence over a segment of the Muslim population—not all of it due to charity and good behaviour. They were returning from the wedding festivities that I was on my way to attend, saying that they had been waiting for me, but had left since they had to go elsewhere, too.
When I reached Mehro ki Dhani, the same thing was said to me, but in a mildly admonitory way. I asked them how I was expected to know that Abdullah Fakir would be waiting for me since I had not been in touch with him. The refrain is always the same: be the first person to arrive at all public engagements like weddings, and the last to leave. Physically, it is as impossible as it sounds, but that still does not affect the expectations and demands of public contact. After a bit of internal irritation, I switched off from the diatribe, mainly because I was here, under this tent made of synthetic material beneath the bright Jaisalmer sun. Why the sides of these tents are not kept open beats me every time. It is only on the most horribly uncomfortable—or the most friendly—occasions that I muster up courage and ask them to raise the side panels and let the breeze cool every body and every soul inside the tent.
Murad is one of the best friends I have made in the constituency, and today is a feast to celebrate his nephew’s wedding. In the countryside, one is not expected to attend the wedding so much as the feast that accompanies it. Some choose to have it before the wedding, while others have it after the event. It is at the feast that people come to exchange information, gossip, news and opium. Most likely, in the reverse order.
Murad was one of those who had made the Hinglaj Mata journey to Pakistan with us in 2006, with which the long-closed Rajasthan–Sindh border was reopened. My father had organized a pilgrimage to the Hinglaj Mata temple in Las Bela district of Baluchistan in February 2006. It was the first time Indians were permitted to travel by road across the dunes that make up the Radcliffe Line in this part of the border. Hinglaj Mata is particularly revered in Bengal, Gujarat and Rajasthan, and there were representatives from all these states on that historic journey, which opened the border for motor vehicles to cross, for the first time since the 1965 Indo-Pak war. Murad is now a Hinglaji, in local parlance. He is from the Mehar clan, one of the largest among the Muslims in the desert. He is also very wealthy as his farmland was the first one to throw up rare red granite. Since this discovery, the economy of the Basya has changed dramatically, and now there are granite mines dotting the surrounding landscape. After attending Murad’s feast, I had to visit another of the villages made famous by granite. The offer of food at Murad’s feast was declined politely and for the very valid reason that the doctor had ordered a restricted diet. Murad did not mind in the least bit, and anyway, I would have to eat in the next village.
Lakha was situated where the swol
len floodwater hit with fury before entering into the Barmer district. The village lost a portion of its land as the water came at it sideways, and took away the areas where the Manganiyars lived. This is the community that has taken Rajasthani folk and classical music all over the world. The unique thing about them is that their beliefs and customs straddle both the Hindu and the Muslim faiths. Neither community claims them as their own, for they belong to both. Their clothing is no different from that of most Hindu communities, whereas their name always ends with Khan.
There is still a wide, empty gap where the floods hit. However, it was not the village proper that I needed to visit, but one of its hamlets, or dhanis, as they are known locally. Life in the desert once centred around these widely dispersed dhanis. Lakha is the largest Rajpurohit village in this part of Jaisalmer and wields considerable clout in both districts. Rajpurohits are another community unique to Rajasthan, and particularly the western part of the state. Their customs and practices are akin to those of both the Brahmins and the Rajputs. While they are vegetarians, their choice of colours for clothing and headgear is identical to the Rajputs. And their intoxicant is limited to the ubiquitous opium. Now, with the money earned through granite, the Rajpurohits’ clout seems to have increased further. So, when the sarpanch of Lakha sends out an invitation for a function, I had better be seen there, and all the more so since my driver Hukum Singh has an aunt who has been given in marriage here.
The gathering was in a traditionally made, circular thatched hut. Going by the numbers present inside, anyone would have shuddered at the thought of all the heat generated. But the little vents cut into the hut all over ensured that the outside breeze blew in, albeit carrying sand along with it, too. As I made my way in, I was reverential in my pai-lagu greetings—this is the traditional greeting towards Brahmins, and the Rajpurohits belong to that category of society. A passage opened quite automatically before me, to let me through the throng of people inside the hut. I made my way in gingerly, feeling embarrassed—this shoving aside of people to clear a path for some visiting notable is a feature of politics that never fails to make me uncomfortable. Lunch was to be served here but, because of my driver’s relationship with the village folks, I was spared the usual tedious explanations about my restricted diet, doctor’s orders, and so on. What I did ask for was their grain, and vegetables cooked according to my specifications. This allowed me to avoid a heavy meal and at the same time ‘complete my courtesies’ according to village etiquette.
While there had not been many meetings today, the distances involved and the time spent at the functions had been considerable, so by the time we reached Lakhmana, the last stop of the day, just off NH 15, it was close to sunset. Populated entirely by refugees from Sindh who had come during and after the 1971 war, Lakhmana is politically very alert. But despite having been in India for so long, the people still speak in their thick dhati accent and wear the trademark kohl eyeliner. I was surprised to find out that I was the first MP to visit the village, ever. Without meaning to be boastful, I told them I had actually lost count of the number of times I had been described as the ‘first MP to come to this village’. In both districts, I had visited dozens of such villages since 2004.
9 March 2009
Since the Holi break was approaching, there were no programmes fixed for today. I had left the day free as, in any case, it would have been difficult to organize meetings, and it was better to just call on people or drop in at villages. None better in this respect than the village of Pithla which, over the years, I had passed many times and entered on fewer occasions. That omission had not gone unnoticed by the village elders, or by my mother.
Being related to her through the intricate network of clan and history, the villagers had complained to her that I ignored them: ‘He is as closely related to us as to Khuri [my paternal grandmother’s village which is about twenty kilometres down the road] and yet we are overlooked,’ they grumbled. My mother’s family had moved from Jaisalmer to Jodhpur and this was one of the villages closest in terms of belonging to the same sub-sub-clan. The ‘ignoring’ bit was partly true, since the major players of Pithla are notoriously difficult to find. I took Ranvir, a cousin, and his best friend Bhanwar with me when we left for Pithla. I needed to talk with them about election management plans, and also have someone to support my case. We reached mid-morning and there were not more than a dozen people in the village. Everyone else had gone to work for the day and so there were just a few of us sitting in the shade of the old rawla that stands like a little fortress overlooking the village and the road to Khuri. As soon as we settled down, I told the villagers that my mother had pulled me up. Of course, the villagers denied that any complaint had been made—they had merely made an observation. And of course, the conversation would be repeated to my mother in a matter of days.
Later in the evening, I sat with Ranvir and Bhanwar to thrash out the election-management strategy for Jaisalmer. Both are in their early thirties, and elected to the zilla parishad and the village panchayat respectively. I consider them to be the core of my team in Jaisalmer, and it helps that Ranvir is also a cousin who is dear to me. Today would be my last day in Jaisalmer till after I file the nomination papers, and they would have to handle matters until then. I went to bed early, as I wanted to leave for Jodhpur very early the next morning, to avoid travelling in the hottest part of the day.
10 March 2009
At the farmhouse which is our home in Jodhpur, the family was getting together after a gap of two months, and then would not meet again for another couple of months. There was much excitement as Hamir (my son) was coming home from Mayo College for his Holi break, and I would not see him again till after the elections. But before he arrived, I went to see Bapji (Gaj Singh, the former maharaja of Jodhpur) at Umaid Bhawan Palace in Jodhpur.
Since he was the eldest male cousin in the family, I went to ask for his blessings. I did not want to repeat the mistake I had made before my first election, when news of my candidature had come as a surprise to him. Today, I told him that I had waited to see him because I’d wanted my candidature to be finalized first. I wanted our conversation to be very open and honest since his elder sister was rumoured to be in the running for the Jodhpur seat as a Congress candidate. I also asked him to give some time to campaigning for me in some areas, but he said he would not be going out to campaign at all.
Hamir came later in the afternoon from Ajmer, and promptly declared that we would be watching the Liverpool–Real Madrid match together in the early hours of the morrow. I told him I would try to be up in time for the match—but after days on the road, covering the entire Jaisalmer constituency, I needed some rest. I did, however, surprise him with the gift of a Liverpool Champions League Away shirt, with badges and a Torres 9 stencilled on the back. He was ecstatic, but then became envious of my Premier League Away shirt. Told him not to be so greedy.
11 March 2009
Hamir woke me up at about 1 a. m., breathless, saying that Liverpool was up by a goal. I had to get up even though I had decided to use this last period of time for resting. But I went back to sleep half an hour later, and so when Hamir told me in the morning that the final score was 4–0, it was my turn to be ecstatic. Quite simply one of the most astonishing scores in European football, and what a way to start the Holi break, I thought. Surely this was a good omen.
My mother and the children played Holi together, as if they were all of the same age. I watched the repeats of the Liverpool match, particularly enjoying the bit when Torres, after scoring, taunted the Real Madrid fans by pointing to his name on the back of his shirt. It is an image I saved as part of my screen saver collection.
12 March 2009
Today, everybody once again went away in different directions. Chitra and my daughter, Harshini, left with my parents for Delhi, Hamir went back to Mayo, and I was to leave for Jasol. The short break for Holi was now over, and there would not be another break till after the elections. Murad had come over to wish
everyone for Holi and he asked me to cheer up Data (as we call my father): ‘Tell him there is nothing to be glum about,’ he said.
Hamir’s sadness and the tears dropping from his large eyes had an effect on everyone. It also affected my mood for the photo shoot that I had to do for the election posters. I had to force myself every time Shyamji, the photographer, asked me to smile. It was a struggle which I went through, wearing my Adidas adventure footwear along with my trademark traditional attire. I was so past caring that when he said he wanted a photograph with me waving, I refused. Anyway, I don’t wave to the crowd—I always greet with my hands joined. I told him waving to people was not in my sanskar.
I was halfway to Jasol when I realized that the fresh coffee and French press with which I usually kick-start my day had been left behind in Jodhpur. Just as well, I thought. I am stressed enough anyway, and buzzed, too.
13 March 2009
It is back to the grind from today. And now there is no turning back, and no break either. Since this is the peak of the wedding season, all programmes have been scheduled to cover as many such events and invitations as possible. These events work, ostensibly, as readymade political meetings since a fair number of people from the area are present. I try and attend as many as possible but, over the years, it has always been the same refrain—that I do not attend enough of them. There is never a right formula for this, as it is simply not possible to attend all.
Campaign Diary Page 2