Campaign Diary

by Manvendra Singh

  Bamsin was next and I expected pretty much the same, but on a slightly different issue. After settling down outside the temple, I asked about the railway line matter, rather than wait for it to be brought up. Who had called me about it? I asked. I recalled that the caller had been a Shrimali Brahmin. He was, in fact, seated next to me, and took off on the fact that he had called me, written to the chief minister, the railway minister, and even the prime minister. I kept a straight face although I wanted to laugh. The next time the rains come, Bamsin will become the next Kawas, he declared, alluding to the village that had been completely submerged in the 2006 floods. I told him—and loud enough for all to hear—that I had spoken to the divisional railway manager (DRM) who was a very reasonable person, and who had asked for someone from the village to meet him when he came to Samdhari. I also reminded him that I had called him back to inform him. He agreed that I had called back, but that nobody had met the DRM for the simple reason that he did not come to Samdhari as planned. Well, somebody visiting Jodhpur could have met him, I said. There was no reply. All that it requires is the construction of a crossing for cattle under the railway line, otherwise cattle crossing over the line would be a safety hazard for the train. The matter is still where it was, I believe.

  From Bamsin it was a short run to Deora, and even before the meeting could get under way, somebody from the village took off by saying that the MP had last been here five years ago to ask for votes. I smiled with full confidence and told him that was not the case, as I had been back to Deora on at least three different occasions. He began to argue, but I stuck to my line. I had done the entire Siwana Assembly area on at least three tours, and Deora, being one of the larger villages, had most certainly been covered in that. His arguing irritated some of the others present, and they told him it was a fact that I had been there, and that he may not have been present then. This happens often enough, and unless countered by fact, the allegation remains hanging, to be picked up by others.

  Just when I thought the day’s meetings were over, the MLA announced that he had added some more meetings. I was initially annoyed but I saw his logic of finishing those additional villages since I was already in the vicinity. ‘Sweet old man’, I recorded in my notebook that day. (I would come to rue that remark later . . .)

  17 March 2009

  As we entered Kusheep, I shuddered at the thought of holding two meetings in the same village. This is a two-thakur village, and since both are in competition with each other, there is invariably a situation where both have to be mollified, with meetings presided over separately by the two of them. Although I could see what I thought were preparations for two meetings, it turned out that both men would be present at the same meeting.

  The younger of the two thakurs came with me to Arjiyana where a fair has been recently revived. Owing to the lackadaisical attitude of the panchayat, over the years the fair had fallen by the wayside. It was now beginning to show signs of life again, and when we reached the venue there was a reasonable crowd. This is a good sign for the village and, over time, its economy will pick up if the fair becomes more popular. For politicians, a fair is the best way to meet more people at a single venue than is otherwise possible. And it also attracts people from other villages, who take the message back. We were seated under a tent and shortly afterwards, the public meeting got under way. When those accompanying me tried to hurry things up I told them not to worry since most of today’s meetings were going to be ad hoc, as the people were busy with fairs and dhunds. And sure enough, that was the case.

  Then it was on to Muthli, where we had to wait for the people to gather. I was seated in a house that was still under construction, which was a blessing. Without doors and windows, there was an uninterrupted flow of breeze. It was a good break from the heat. But Zalam Singh heated things up with his diatribe about my not coming for five years. I gently told him that was not true, and was surprised when a younger person from the village took up my case. He introduced himself to me later as Shanker Sen and said he was the local head of the Right to Information (RTI) group and an activist of Aruna Roy’s Mazdoor Kisan Shakti Sangathan (MKSS). He was the first person from the district associated with MKSS whom I met, even though Nikhil Dey and Aruna Roy had told me on a number of occasions that they had a network there. My last discussion with them had been about the need for a training capsule for the mate employed under the National Rural Employment Generation Scheme (NREGS). (A mate in the NREGS programme is essentially a foreman, someone who functions as the head of the labour gang at a project site. His measurements and assessments are considered sacrosanct and are reflected in the monies earned proportionate to work completed.) I had agreed with that proposal but not with the idea of paying the mate more than the labour force under them. Shanker Sen told me that Aruna Roy and Nikhil Dey were expected in Barmer for an MKSS workshop in a few days’ time. I told him that it would be wonderful to meet them in Barmer. (Alas, that did not happen.)

  The drive to Indrana was a quick affair, and the meeting was held in a hall near Asu Singh’s house. He is the Siwana block president of the Bharatiya Janata Party (BJP) and one of the nicest people in the district. He also holds a position in the Rajpurohit trust at Asotra Brahmdham. I was comfortable enough with him to say that we would be lunching there, and that I was carrying my own food. After lunch, I carried my plates outside to wash them, despite the younger family members telling me to leave them as they were. I told them that this was a Brahmin house and I would not be caught dead leaving my used plates to be picked up by a Brahmin—something socially unacceptable in these parts. Asu Singh smiled, for these are age-old customs that no amount of ‘change’ can change.

  He came along for the subsequent tour of Thapan, Siner, Mithura and Padru, but none of them produced a meeting of any substance as the people were out touring fairs and dhunds. In Padru, we sat in an overcrowded shop listening to the woes of being a BJP worker in a terrified village. ‘You have to pay more attention to our plight,’ one of the villagers berated me. The struggle for panchayat supremacy has seen the local strongman Prem Singh move to the Congress on account of intense factionalism in the block BJP, and he carries enough local support to instil fear in those not on his side.

  18 March 2009

  Today is Sheetla satam, the seventh day after Holi, and the biggest day in the calendar for the goddess Sheetla Mata to ward off smallpox. It is also the last day of the Holi fairs, of which the biggest is at Kanana, to which Amra Ram accompanied me. He was formerly the MLA for Pachpadra and could have won the election had an uncle of mine not opposed him. That episode has created the biggest headache for me during this election, for I cannot be seen by the Kalbis as one of those who had opposed Amra Ram. I had not, but still, I am paying the price for it. The first meeting was in the Kalbi samaj hall and, although well attended, there seemed a reticence on their part that I had not seen earlier. There is little I can do about it now, except just push on.

  The main meeting venue was under the auspices of the local panchayat, and they wanted to make it a Congress affair. The start was delayed since they expected the state revenue minister to be the chief guest. I sensed he would not be attending and, sure enough, he did not. After almost an hour’s wait, Naina Ram, the pradhan of the panchayat samiti, took matters into his hands and got the meeting under way. It went very well, but I still felt anxious about Amra Ram and his kin.

  Devi Singh Judiya—amongst my closest buddies in the district and a nephew of Jograj Singh Rajpurohit, the last local to contest the Parliament election as a BJP candidate before me—was accompanying me today. I occasionally take him along with me on village rounds, since we get to chat and discuss matters without an audience. After a bumpy crossing of the Luni riverbed, we turned off the road to have lunch under a nice khejdi tree. There was enough food for the four of us in the Scorpio. After lunch, it would be a non-stop run to the next, and the last, fair.

  This was the first time I was attending the fair at Khandap, al
though I had been there many times. The focal point is Naga Baba’s samadhi. As we neared it, I was stopped by a familiar voice. I was surprised to see Girdhar Singh Kotda, since the Samadhi is almost 250 kilometres from his village. He then explained that Naga Baba was his father’s guru and that the family comes here every year on this day. I greeted his father—ailing in body, but not in spirit—seated by himself in the veranda.

  The meeting was held outside the temple, and people were crowding around so much that there was no breathing space. We were seated crushed against the wall, and it seemed as though the whole crowd was falling on us. I had to get up and bid everyone to sit down, but those at the back would not listen. This is also a typically Indian trait. It was only when the gairs started to dance that the crowd moved back a bit, but still not enough to give the dancers space for fluid movements. The best group was from the neighbouring tehsil of Jalore, and I called the group leader to tell him that his lot was the best I had seen this year. It truly was. When we got into the Scorpio, Devi Singh announced that he had lost his footwear once again. This is the second time it has happened to him, and on both occasions he had been accompanying me. And both times, they were stolen at temples.

  There was still enough sunlight to make a dash to Mokalsar and pay a condolence visit because, after sundown, it is not the done thing to make a condolence call. Went to Tejraj’s house as his father had recently passed away, and there were a fair number of local notables paying their condolences. The sarpanch, too, was there, and the issue of the railway line came up, as it had at Bamsin, but the tenor was very different. Since I had done my homework, it was easy to handle this discussion. This being a larger village, and with more cattle around, it was going to be a far more serious matter here than elsewhere. With the new raised railway line coming up through Mokalsar, there was no place on the track where their cattle could cross and go over to the grazing areas. It was dangerous enough for the cattle to climb the incline, and then for them to be caught on top by an approaching train was a disaster waiting to happen.

  On the way back, I asked Hukum Singh to take us via Guda-Naal. We saw Gokji as soon as the first shop came into view, presiding over a gossip session like the panch that he is—Gokji is how we address him respectfully, his given name being Gokul Singh Rajpurohit. One of the most highly regarded people in the area, he has always shown me a grandfatherly affection. He began by berating me for not calling him over the last six months, which was not true since his mobile number kept changing and I could not keep track of it. Then he went on about how his kalja (an untranslatable Rajasthani word that means everything—soul, heart, insides) burns every time he reads in the paper that I am touring this and that part of the border, or raising this and that issue. I laughed—touched beyond words—and told him that he would surely agree with me that the border area has thrown up issues which require a continuous presence there. He agreed reluctantly, but with a beaming smile.

  He called his audience into the house and then proceeded to prepare a cold feast for us. It being Sheetla satam, no fire is lit in any house for cooking. All the food to be eaten is prepared the previous day, and no tea is served, either. This is one of the enduring customs of Rajasthan that has no parallel in the calendar; it serves to highlight how deadly the threat of smallpox must have been generations ago when this custom began.

  There was still time for the last programme of the day, in Balotra, so we stopped at Asotra Brahmdham, just making it in time for the evening aarti. And what a wonderful aarti it was! I had the big bell to the right of the main temple all to myself and, throughout the aarti, I kept on ringing it. Devi Singh asked me later whether my arm hurt, and I told him honestly that I did not feel a thing.

  The Balotra Mali samaj Holi celebrations last a whole week, and tonight was the closing event. They gather every evening for a hi-tech, fancily dressed gair party, with live singers performing to a techno-Rajasthani beat. It was already under way when I reached. Some time later, Harish Chowdhury, the likely Congress candidate, also reached, and the announcer declared that both the candidates were present. Harish’s candidature was due to be announced any day, but the list was pending clearance in Delhi. He is the last person I would have liked to contest against me, but alas it is not my wish that counts! We had worked together during the 2006 floods, and he had kept in touch with me until the last Assembly candidates were announced. It was very late by the time the party—which, in a certain way, it was—got over and, as I made my way out, the chief organizer accompanied me to the Scorpio and said, ‘We hope you return as our MP and make a proper stage for us next year.’ I promised him I would.

  19 March 2009

  Today is the last day of the current tour of the Siwana area. As I was about to leave home, Lakshman, my nephew, came in with his father, an elder cousin I respectfully call Praveen ba, to announce that he had cleared his final examination for the Rajasthan Administrative Service (RAS). It was after years of trying, and I was very happy for him, especially as his wife had already made it into the RAS.

  When the Siwana programme was being finalized, I recalled reading that Devandi was scheduled for the last day, and saying to myself, ‘Just as well’. The village thakur is also the BJP bigwig here, but completely immersed in the factionalism that has riddled the party in Siwana. And sure enough, that was the tone of the meeting at his place. As everyone sat down, he launched into his diatribe. After some time, he took me inside to his formal living room, and berated me even further for ‘ignoring’ his group, and ‘not talking to or inviting Kesar Singh’, and so on. I kept grinning in silence and heard him out without feeling a bit of remorse. It all ended sweetly with him bidding me well with a serving of the traditional jaggery.

  During the drive to Ludrada I was a bit apprehensive, as I had not spent much time in that village over the years. But, once we got the meeting under way, I realized that keeping my distance had been fortuitous, as Ludrada was involved in a strange controversy, one with which I would not have had anything to do, anyway. A water-supply scheme had been sanctioned, which was to originate in the village and supply water to other villages. But it was being blocked by some Ludrada villagers. They were actually preventing water from being pumped to a needy village. I could not condone that at all, but was hesitant about showing my annoyance at this time—it is difficult to take sides in such matters during an election, and that creates a moral dilemma as well. All I said was that water must be shared by all without any wastage, and if we avoid wastage, we can serve all. I chickened out, I guess.

  From Ludrada, it was finally into the Bhakarda belt, my favourite part of Siwana. The landscape here is simply breathtaking: a curious mixture of hidden valleys, sand dunes and a network of mysterious caves. I would love to trek here if only I could become anonymous for some time. Its entry point is Ramaniya, always a tricky village because politically it is excitable to the extreme. But today, it was very warm towards me. Such a relief!

  But that was not the case at our next stop, Sela, for soon after we took our seats, the attack on me started. I was expecting it, but not the volume with which it came. The Sela thakur went on and on about how I had insulted all of them the last time I was there. It was an incident that I would never forget, and will never regret.

  Sela has a very old temple dedicated to an ancestor. And near it, a hall was built through my MPLADS recommendation. When a programme was held for its inauguration, I realized that some branches of a jaal bush had been cut to make space for the tent. That lit my fuse, for the jaal has a significant spiritual connection with my ancestor, and it is never cut or even trimmed. I left the programme in a huff, announcing over the mike that I regretted having recommended the construction of the hall, for now I would have to live with the curse for the rest of my life as I was equally guilty of the sin. The Sela thakur had not forgiven me for upbraiding them the last time I was there and was now attacking me, albeit with a smile. Nevertheless, in the end we parted in good humour. And that was also how we
finished at Eetwaya, the last of the Siwana villages. The farm venue had two mobile towers in it, making me wonder how the owner had managed it.

  20 March 2009

  Though it was not on the schedule, I had to head back into the Siwana area for a condolence event. I had met Jogji during my first election and had taken an instant liking to him. He has warm eyes and is a reticent conversationalist. Today was the last day of the mourning period for his mother, and by the time we reached his farm at Indrana most of his guests, including those from Jalore, Bikaner and other districts, had arrived. I had to reach Barmer in time for the workers’ meeting, so I did not spend much time at Indrana.

  On the way back to Balotra, Devi Singh Judiya once again remarked on my soft corner for the Rabari community. I had told him we were now going to a big Rabari function, a chorasi, which literally means a gathering from eighty-four villages. I smiled in agreement and then said, ‘After all, I grew up among the Rabaris, as my children are doing now.’ I find them to be the calmest of all the people I have met, and I feel most at ease with them. Barmer friends and colleagues tell me that I do not differentiate between any of the communities, but I definitely have a soft spot for the Rabaris. It is a fact that I do not deny. Once again, I hoped no child marriage was going to take place. For a scattered community like the Rabaris, the Balotra function was large and, sure enough, the conversation turned to their reservation status as a Scheduled Tribe. I had missed the big Shivratri function that they have at Jaitramji ki Piyao as I had fallen ill that day. And the call had gone up at that function for the pending Bill on their status for inclusion as Scheduled Tribes to be passed by the Rajasthan Assembly.