The events today stretched over three tehsils, and I juggled in my mind which one to start with. The final decision I left to Hukum Singh since he would be doing the driving. But just before we were to leave Jasol, I got a call from Barmer, telling me not to attend the Akdara function. This was disturbing since I had committed to Akdara, and it involved Meghwals from pretty much the whole of Baytu and beyond. The Meghwals are the largest amongst the communities that are classified as Scheduled Castes in my constituency, possibly even in the whole of Rajasthan. A fair number of them are still living in Pakistan and in Gujarat. Their traditional occupations range from weaving to leather work. The caller said that a formal complaint had been made about Akdara to the police and to the authorities that the function involved a child marriage. Now I was in a real dilemma. I needed to go, but certainly did not want to court controversy. Phone calls were made all over, and it finally transpired that the complaint arose from an in-house, intra-family squabble—a false alarm. Must have been some envy or rivalry that inspired the complaint.
By the time I reached Akdara from Jasol it was already mid-morning, and the gathering was about to peak. There was much warmth and happiness in the greetings that ensued. Parking—as is the norm at such events—was a complete mess, with vehicles of all kinds all over the dunes. Owners and passengers were also everywhere—under tents, in the shade of trees and shrubs, in and out of the various little houses that dotted the dhani. The large central tent was the only suitable place for me to meet everyone and that is where I went and seated myself.
It was here that I finally met up with Prema Ram, from Kanod, the Bahujan Samaj Party (BSP) candidate during the Assembly elections. I have been fond of him since before my last election: we share a great deal of warmth and are open with each other. He was very blunt and to the point, saying that he would file his nomination for the Parliament elections if I thought it would help me. This is a tactic frequently employed across the country to divert votes that, in any case, are not expected. Since the Scheduled Castes are supposed to be voting Congress, and he was one of them, it would help my election chances if the votes were diverted away from the Congress. Or so the thinking goes. But I told him that what I wanted was his explicit and outright support.
The major problem in attending these functions is that the guests are expected to eat. And eating everywhere gets tiresome, and unhealthy, too. My new trick was to ask for jaggery and declare that it was the most auspicious item according to Indian tradition. ‘And I will take some jaggery from your hands.’ That settles the issue pretty well, I think. But this was a Meghwal event, and there are always some who keep looking to see if the non-Meghwal guest will have water—or anything—from their hands. While waiting for the jaggery to be brought, I realized that they had not served me water, and so I asked for it. Clearly they were not prepared, and brought a plastic bottle that was covered with cloth to keep the water cool. I thanked them, and took more than a swig so that the gesture was clearly understood by one and all. Even the drunk young man, who had been noisily interrupting my conversation, now maintained a sullen silence. A relief.
From Akdara it was a straight, long run to Siner, and by the time I reached, it was time for lunch. I declined, saying that there were medical restrictions. Moreover, having meals tends to add a huge amount to the time spent in a place, so I asked the staff with me to eat, as we could then make a non-stop run to the next stop at Lakheta.
As at Akdara, I was asked to make a speech with a simple, silent gesture: a mike was placed before me. And I repeated what I had said at Akdara: that I did not make speeches at such functions, as politicizing the purity of such intimate family events was against my sanskar. There were some approving nods, but I sensed that most of those present did not agree with my reasoning.
After many months I was once again having my meals in a moving vehicle. That the staff had already eaten made things easier for me. At least twenty minutes were saved this way and, although late, we could still be at our next destination, Lakheta, at a reasonable hour. The Lakheta fair is one of the big events in the district that are held in the days following Holi. The gathering involves people from at least two of the tehsils, Siwana and Pachpadra; and sometimes, also from the neighbouring Jodhpur and Jalore district tehsils.
Besides having the usual stalls and shops, the Lakheta fair has one of the largest gatherings of gairs in western Rajasthan. A gair is an all-male dance troupe that has only one accompanying musician and follows a rhythm that can be hypnotic. One or more of the dancers can even be in drag, normally borrowed from the wife! They are the highlight of the fair, and then prizes are awarded to the best of them in all the categories. The first time I attended, I had remarked in my prize distribution speech that I would rather come there as a spectator than as the chief guest because I could then enjoy the gair dances without disturbance. That, alas, has not happened as yet.
I noticed that the number of gair groups was smaller this year, and I said as much to the organizers. ‘So many of the young are now working outside that there are not many left to take it up,’ was the reply. There was still, however, sufficient energy in the dancers to make the combination of rhythm and steps enthralling.
Babu Singh Rajpurohit, the patwari who had caused many political problems last year, protesting against the punishment that was to be meted out to him—which was subsequently put on hold—was hovering around the stage. He had incited members of his Rajpurohit community to agitate violently following a murder in a village near Balotra. It was an intra-family affair but he had made it out to be a conspiracy. The district authorities got so fed up with him that he was sent on a posting to a distant village on the border. He had then mobilized all his supporters into submitting further petitions. When he approached me, it was to inform me of another function in Dhanwa, being held by a Rajpurohit family. I asked him about local prospects, and he said emphatically that I would get ‘at least the same margin from here as last time’. I did not believe him—not totally, anyway.
Dhanwa meant another run of more than 100 kilometres, but it had to be done. By the time I reached there it was past 5 p.m., but the gathering was still big enough. I was placed near the group that was preparing opium. When somebody remarked on that, I said, in a voice loud enough for the message to be carried, that when it was a matter of a tradition, there was nothing to fear from the law. I had personally been against the whole opium ritual, but after the contrived case against Data, I had become a vocal defender of our traditional cultural practices.** This went down well with those sitting around me, and there was much nodding of heads.
When the Kaludi brothers made their way to wards me, I knew there would be some harsh things to hear. Kaludi Rajpurohits are reputed, even within their own community, to be particularly hard-headed. I am often reminded that since they are the gurus of Jasol, my father’s ancestral domain, their wishes must carry extra weight with me. This kind of banter has been going on for generations, I imagine. So when Mangal Singh and Asu Singh took off on how their samaj had been neglected, I was completely calm. This is a tactic frequently employed by various community-focused leaders to mobilize and incite their core constituency. After some time, I had to interrupt them and remind them that not one of them had offered to help their kinsmen in Bothiya when the land there was under threat of acquisition.
Since the event I was attending here involved a death, and the return of the family members from Haridwar, I, too, contributed to the donations. When I realized I was not carrying any money on me, I borrowed from Mangal Singh without hesitation. Despite his griping, I did not want any message to be read other than the fact that the Jasol–Kaludi relationship would always be as intimate as it had been, regardless of electoral politics.
It was only after I reached home at Jasol, had a bath and switched on my laptop, that I realized that today was Friday the 13th. It has been my wish for many years, in fact, since my early days with the Indian Express, to host a Friday-the-13th party. Another
one gone, I moaned to myself. Wayne Rooney’s attack on Liverpool figured prominently in all the sites I browsed. He used ‘hate’ to describe his feelings for Liverpool. The git that he is!
14 March 2009
I woke up very early in the morning, feeling very cold. This was my second night under the stars. Usually I sleep out in the open from April onwards but, with the days being so hot already, I had started doing this early. Despite the temperatures being above 38°C during the day, in the desert a razai is not enough at night.
Today was the biggest day of the season as Liverpool were playing Manchester United at Old Trafford. So I got ready early to make sure all my programmes were attended well in time for me to watch the match back home in the evening. The first programme was a Rabari community function at Jasol itself. The Rabaris are the shepherds of western Rajasthan, travelling across states and highways in their traditional red turbans and embroidered dhotis. Their women are possibly the most brightly dressed of all, and they carry their camps on their camels. A number of Rabaris still migrate with their cattle into Haryana and Madhya Pradesh. I grew up playing with Rabari boys, so have a special soft spot for them. I was worried there might be some child-marriage problem again—the Rabaris are frequent violators of the law on child marriage, and, since this was a social function, many such unions could well have taken place today. Luckily, this was not the case.
A party workers’ meeting was organized at Balotra, to which the Barmer party workers were also invited. As soon as it got under way, the attack began, ostensibly against my neglect of the karyakarta, the party worker, but aimed at the municipal chairperson seated next to me. She is a dear friend’s wife, and better educated than most of those who were in the running. Since municipal offices often involve getting land deeds passed for a consideration, there were many who were aggrieved that they could not get their fingers into the pie. And this, I presume, is the case in every municipal body in the country. Fortunately Balram Prajapat came to the rescue. He had been district president of the BJP when I had contested in 2004, and subsequently became the chairman of Barmer Municipal Council. He responded to those leading the attack by highlighting his experience as chairman of Barmer municipality, when he had often faced the wrath of karyakartas seeking that extra favour. When that favour could not be granted because it was against the law, he said, there was always the same complaint that the chairman doesn’t look after the karyakarta. There was silence after that, and I left for Samdhari, with thoughts of the match preoccupying me.
At Chirdiya, the accusation that dominated the meeting was that not a rupee from the MP Local Area Development Scheme (MPLADS) had been spent on the village. I did not recall having recommended any, so I kept a guilty silence. When the haranguing had gone on for far too long, I simply asked them about the proposals they had made and sent me. ‘What is pending?’ I asked. Silence. They had not given me any proposals and yet were giving me a torrid time. After that, there was much holding of ears by way of apologizing.
My mobile flashed at 6 p. m. with a reminder about the match. It was agonizing, but I did not have much of a choice as there was still the Ajit meeting to attend. It is a large village and the meeting venue is near the old math (shrine). And it was there that I first checked the score, thanks to GPRS. Ronaldo had just scored from the penalty spot. The meeting became a blur after that. As we were leaving, I was informed that since we were already in the area, another meeting had been fixed in the neighbouring village. I could not complain. Halfway through the meeting in the dark, at Miyon ka Bada, I checked the score, and Liverpool was already up. As soon as the meeting came to an end, I rushed to the Scorpio and told Hukum Singh to speed up.
He was surprised, as I never ever do that. When I told him it was because of the Liverpool match he understood—my staff has been with me long enough now to realize the magnitude of the event. He asked me whether we could hear the match commentary on the radio. Very sweet of him. As we neared Jasol, I called up Kishen (who ran my household) on his mobile and asked him to have the television switched on to ESPN by the time I reached. He was at the door as I drove in, to inform me that the set-top box was not charged. Oh well! At least we had won, and handsomely, once again. What a week of excellent results—scoring four against two of the biggest teams in the world!
When I came out, well scrubbed from a long bath, and checked myself in the mirror, I could swear that there were the coolest-looking spikes in my hair. They must have actually been there as I had not had a drop of beer to make me start imagining sights.
15 March 2009
I was pleasantly surprised by an early morning phone call from Rewat Singh. When he said he was from Mahabar I must have sighed, as it is a tough village on the outskirts of Barmer. And nobody calls from there to share the weather report. So, when he began to thank me, I could not believe my ears. I had to ask him to repeat the name of the work project. He was thanking me for some water tanks that had been made through my MPLADS recommendations. His phone call was as touching as it was rare, for nobody calls to thank for work that has been done. Well, almost nobody.
Since the post-Holi festivities were continuing, coupled with marriage functions, there were no fixed programmes of the public-meeting type. The visits through various villages in the Siwana area continued without any agenda. Everywhere, I had to continue refusing tea and opium. I was lucky to meet Tulsa Ramji Bapji at the Mahilawas temple boli. He is one of the nicest of the local holy men, with followers spread over a number of Rajasthan districts. The boli—which is essentially an auction of various parts or events, to do with the temple—was for the under-construction Nagnechi Mata temple. Bids, or boli, are made for the crown of the statue, or a lunch feast, or whatever. As always, Tulsa Ramji expressed his fondness for me. Andso, when they told me that the inauguration date of the temple was set for 7 May, polling day, I was pleasantly surprised. Nagnechi Mata is my kul devi, the presiding goddess of my clan. So this temple could well be auspicious for me, I thought to myself.
The big programme was at the Chamunda Mata fair that is organized by the Mahilawas and Mokalsar panchayats. I was attending this fair for the first time, and its size was a revelation to me. There were some new gairs here, wearing very sharp dark glasses and fancy running shoes. I thought that was charming—the way modern items mesh with traditional ones, like safas, dhotis and drums. A couple of the dancers performed a sinuous item with palpable passion.
This area has an abundance of hills, and once also had the best water in the district. But now it has been extracted well into the critical zone of the subsoil water table. Hence, when the speeches began, it was the usual Siwana issue—joining river waters, storing rainwater in large reservoirs. I made a semi-political speech about Chamunda Mata being the vijaikari avatar, and how it was Atalji’s (former prime minister Atal Bihari Vajpayee) dream that the river waters be joined so as to protect the country from droughts and floods. After the speeches, we trooped off for a darshan at the Chamunda Mata temple tucked deep into the hillside. Earlier, I had not paid attention to it whenever I drove past, but it turned out to be quite a stunning location once we climbed up—one cannot get a sense of it from the road. I was happy to have got a darshan from close up.
As we drove back to Jasol the match mood caught up with me again, and I listened to You’ll never walk alone on my iPod. Inside the Scorpio, it sounded as though I was at Anfield. Came back early enough so I was able to enjoy the goals against Manchester United and the highlights of the match on YouTube. What a wonderful invention for those like me who miss matches! (Subsequently, too, I got to watch the highlights repeatedly on a number of nights.)
16 March 2009
The first meeting today was at Rakhi, to pay a condolence visit. I had not been able to go there earlier for one reason or the other, so when I made my visit it was well past the first twelve days of mourning. From there, we went to a Kalbi samaj dhund. An agrarian community, the Kalbis are also called Patels, and stretch across into Gujar
at, though there is no intermarriage with the Gujarati ones. A number of them are now into business, migrating all the way to Karnataka and Kerala. The days after Holi are also peak dhund season. These dhunds are held to ward off evil from a newborn, and they also function as a social gathering. There is now a competition to host ever more expensive dhunds. After the pleasantries, as expected, somebody began on the subject of the Rakhi–Sarwadi road. There has been a long-standing demand to join the two villages that are otherwise well connected to the road network, but not to each other. During the monsoon, the dirt road between them becomes a clayey mess and, at other times, a mass of flying dust. ‘I, too, had made a proposal about building this road,’ said one of those present. I agreed, and then added that it had been forwarded to Jaipur, where the budget was largely for repairs of existing roads. ‘If you had wanted to, it could have been done,’ he retorted. I began the long explanation of the limits of an MP’s powers and responsibilities, but to no avail, for in public perception the lines that differentiate an MP from other elected representatives are blurred, if they exist at all.
The next stop was Arthandi where, when I had once visited it during the 2003 Assembly elections, a banner had been hung up across the main entry, declaring, ‘No entry for politicians’. That was because no road had been made to connect Arthandi. It was to be the first road I recommended soon after winning in 2004. But I was still nervous since the Rajpurohit youth body had asked for a hall from my MPLADS list. I remembered this having been recommended but was not sure whether it had been constructed. Very gingerly, I asked Ashok Singh, the young zilla parishad member for the area. He said the money had been received by the panchayat but it was insufficient for the hall. I told him that at least the work could have been started and additional funds would have been recommended. Upon which the older members flared up and began to berate the sarpanch. With a barely suppressed chuckle, I expressed my helplessness in forcing the sarpanch to undertake the work. Left from there a little relieved that the assault had not been on me.
Campaign Diary Page 3