I was reminded of that at the Balotra gathering. I told them, very firmly, ‘Your people brought me up. You are all family for me and so I do not need to be reminded or informed about your social status. And long before what you told me today, I had a conversation with a Congress colleague about this. When he asked me which communities needed to be included, I told him none deserved it more than the Rabaris.’ Awed into silence, they then asked me about my Congress friend’s reply. I told them that he became as silent as they all were now.
I was continuously getting calls on the mobile phone about stopping at Baytu since a Jain muni was visiting there and I needed to take his blessings. All the Congress people had already been there and I had not, was the constant refrain. I told them I would stop en route. By the time I reached Baytu it was nearing midday, and the senior muni had already retired for lunch. So, while waiting, we were kept company by the junior muni. When he asked Kishore—in whose house the muni was staying—to get me some tea, the workers sitting there told him I did not drink tea and was, in fact, against nasha-pata (colloquial for intoxicants, from the bottled variety to the tobacco in paan leaves) in public. The junior muni was very pleased and said, ‘This is a very good thing, especially since you are a Rajput and your community is seriously afflicted by this nasha.’ I kept my thoughts to myself, for what I had seen over the years did not square with what he had just said. The consumption of intoxicants has not been restricted to particular communities, and it was, in fact, rampant, especially among those to whom it is forbidden by social mores.
The Barmer phone calls were unceasing now—they were coming in every other minute to check my location. At Uttarlai, we had a longish wait since the railway crossing was closed for traffic. By the time I reached the Industrial Training Institute and the Cairn Energy–funded Enterprise Centre, the reception committee had built up to quite a crowd. This was my first visit to Barmer town since my candidature was announced, and the party workers wanted to put up a big show. I had to get out of the Scorpio to receive the garlands, and there were many. From this point on, our convoy snaked its way into the town, stopping once again at Sindhri Choraya for another reception committee waiting there.
I had already told the welcoming party that before I reached the meeting venue, I needed to light a jyot at the Mallinath Hostel. So the entire convoy stopped there. Ideally, I would have liked to light the jyot at the new Mallinath temple in the hostel, but its opening function as per the auspicious date had not yet been carried out. So I did it in the main hall of the hostel. Amongst the crowd assembled, there was a large number of students.
From the last railway crossing to the Maheshwari Sadan venue, I decided to walk—the convoy was being constantly stopped, so it made more sense to go on foot. It is also a better way to meet more people. The warmth and affection in the greetings was very touching—including those from some Congressmen.
The meeting at the Maheshwari Sadan was not as large as the gatherings outside. There were the usual speeches about gearing up for a tough battle ahead, and so on. Heera Ramji, a venerable soul and regarded as a BJP senior amongst the Jat community, walked in towards the end, and I asked the person in charge of the mike to let him speak. He had everybody in splits with his rustic and sharp speech, in stark contrast to that of Swarup Singh, my election agent, who spoke in an accusatory tone about many in the audience who went missing during the Assembly elections. He has been my election agent up to now, as he had been chosen by the party, but it is still difficult to read his mind. (It was to remain this way through the course of the election.) As the election agent, he is the interface between the Election Commission and me. All the documentation, including accounts, has to be done by him. There was something in him that I couldn’t quite fathom. He seemed distant and disinterested in the campaign. Which was an uncomfortable feeling since he is supposed to be the most important person as far as I was concerned as a candidate.
Later in the evening Roshan Khalifa came to see me. He wanted to meet us alone and in a safe place. His Pir was the foreign minister of Pakistan, Shah Mehmood Qureshi. Roshan Khalifa had been sarpanch of his panchayat over many terms, and I had helped keep him out of jail for the last five years in a development-corruption case that also involved many others. My argument to the state government was that he had to be arrested along with the others, not simply because he was a Congressman, as appeared to be happening. Today, he came to assure help but also declare his helplessness since Amin Khan, now a minister in the Congress government in Jaipur, was putting him under a lot of pressure. (This was to be my last meeting with him alone, and now he is on the run since arrest warrants have been issued.)
21 March 2009
Today I began doing the rounds of the Barmer and the Shiv Assembly areas. This is going to be my biggest and, in some ways, most important round, involving as it does the largest number of villages. This is also a politically significant part of the constituency. I need to do well in these Assembly segments, maybe not as well as the last time, but still enough to help keep my head above water.
I was not sure about being able to do that when we entered Langera, an influential village near the town. Most of the active people had already left for work, but I met some of the others at the Marudi meeting which was held at the three-way junction that goes towards Jessai. There was a surprisingly large number of women there, which is unusual for this part of the Barmer district. After the meeting, I was ushered into a room for snacks, but I knew there was another reason. Sure enough, it turned out to be the controversy over Hari Singh, a Marudi person who is an officer in the Rajasthan Administrative Service. One of the most corrupt, he was posted to Jaisalmer but his appointment order was cancelled the same day. It was alleged that I had had it cancelled. I asked them why would the government accede to my posting requests and said that it was such a preposterous allegation that I did not think it worth wasting time over. If there was any proof of my involvement, I would apologize publicly. If not, then those making the allegation must do the same. (This was an issue that was to keep haunting me throughout the campaign.) Since he is from their village, they will naturally keep batting for him, despite the allegations against him.
Kan Singh Marudi accompanied me from here and as we climbed the steps for a quick darshan at the Hinglaj Mata temple in Jessai, he kept asking me about the main temple in Baluchistan. I told him if the goddess willed it, we would go there again, and he should get his passport made. The meeting venue at Jessai, under a peepal tree in the middle of the village, must be among the best in the constituency. Climbing up to the platform involves using both hands to pull oneself up, but it still does not prevent inquisitive goats from jumping up. Every meeting here has involved at least one goat being pushed down, and another taking its place. And every meeting has involved a long session by Deepa Ram, a bhopa. Essentially a title of respect, given to a person from any caste or community, a bhopa is supposed to serve a local deity as a priest-singer and in turn imbibes some powers, such as the ability to find a thief, or to ward off an illness by some chants. Deepa Ram was at it again today, moaning about the railway crossing that had yet not been sanctioned. His son is a junior commissioned officer in the Army Education Corps, which naturally makes him a very proud father. He, too, got into the Scorpio, sitting beside Kan Singh Marudi.
We lunched at Khara in the shade, near the water point, after a fairly good meeting. It was getting really hot by the time we left Khara and made our way to Daulat Singh’s charming abode at Mithria Kua, literally ‘sweet well’. The old well was still in use, and we reached there through the sand track near the village. Daulat Singh assured us that he had arranged a meeting at Gangala (another part of the village), but when we reached there, not a soul was around. Finally, when we did find someone and asked him, he said there had been no information about any meeting. A pity, since I like this village, which is also supposed to have the best cows in the area.
Bhachbhar is a village consisting of several are
as, but meetings here are always held on the sand dune since they are invariably hosted by those residing on the dune. And they invariably have only one complaint, one request, and that is for water. I expected trouble on this score, and I got it. The height of the dune and the amount of water required to sustain it have proved to be an impossible task for the water-supply department. I still wonder whether the department will find a solution. Like all the Bhachbhar meetings, this one was tense, so it was a relief when it was over, and I made my way down the dune and towards Tamliyar.
A couple of years ago, a Zee TV team had accompanied me to Tamliyar for a programme at the madrasa. They were surprised to see a BJP MP feted in a madrasa, but they also came away with the memory of a very touching song in Sindhi sung by some of the boys. Among other things, it asked, in charming verse, for a hall for the students. This time, as I entered Tamliyar, I was ushered into the madrasa hall which was now almost complete. It was only later that I realized that Ali had taken me there so as to slight Shafi, whom I am close to.
The main Tamliyar meeting had been organized by Shafi who is in conflict with Ali over political influence within the village. Shafi and Ali are engaged in a contest to determine which of them is the BJP boss in the area. All this, Shafi told me later in the evening. Shafi is among my closest friends in the constituency, but lives largely in Surat, running his own business there. After the meeting, he took me to Haji Umar’s madrasa, which is one of the biggest in the region. They are cousins but, politically, they are at loggerheads. The Haji is as staunch a Congressman as there can be, but it had not prevented him from travelling to Delhi to protest against the state visit of George Bush in 2006. He was taken aback when he saw me enter his madrasa, but was nevertheless warm and gifted me a red kaffiyeh and a tazbi that he had bought during his pilgrimage to Mecca.
There were some visitors from Gujarat who may have been inspecting the madrasa; one of them lived in London and interrogated me on the state of affairs in the country. It was a bizarre conversation, sitting in a Barmer-border madrasa, speaking in English with somebody who had a touch of a north London accent. When we came out on to the steps for the photograph and goodbye session, I could see dense storm clouds approaching. Shafi thought it was a good omen.
By the time we reached Suvada the wind had picked up a furious pace. There was little chance of holding a meeting, but it did not prevent Samand Khan, once the sarpanch of this panchayat, from screaming over the sound of the wind that votes were with the poor, not with the influential. He was alluding to Amin Khan, now a Congress minister. ‘There was no welcome today, but there will be votes for you,’ Samand Khan declared in a cocky tone. The rain overtook us before we reached Kharchi, and by the time we ran into the madrasa it was pouring down. The electric-power supply went in a matter of minutes, and everybody was huddled in a largish veranda. The students of all ages gasped loudly at every crack of lightning. They were promptly hushed by their maulvis. Seeing their rain-smeared faces glistening with every flash, I missed Hamir. In them, I saw his fears, his inquisitiveness and his childhood innocence.
When we left the Kharchi madrasa it was still pouring heavily, and it was a slow and careful drive to Ramsar. There was no question of another meeting, so the one scheduled for Babuguleria would have to be postponed. The rain had eased slightly by the time we arrived at Jograj’s house in Ramsar. This was to be my base for the next few days, and I was staying here on account of kinship, although Jograj and his family are staunch pillars of the local Congress. This was not a usual occurrence, for staying with the Opposition during elections is generally frowned upon, but this family had local connections, was also connected closely to us, and offered a space with reasonable privacy. Something rare in the area.
22 March 2009
Woke up after my first night in Ramsar to that inimitable early morning sound of calves calling for their mothers, as familiar here as the rooster’s call elsewhere. My major-domo Kishen had come with me, so my breakfast and meals would be taken care of. The thundershower had made the morning exceptionally cool for this time of the year. In any case, the early hours of the day in the desert are very comfortable even at the peak of summer.
Jograj and Sawai Singh joined me for breakfast, and we discussed yesterday’s rain. There would be calls from various places for compensation for damage to crops, but it would help the cattle grazers as some fresh grass would come up and water would have collected in the reservoirs. Grazing lands are vanishing at an alarming rate and, along with them, a way of life. Socially sanctioned grazing lands are being distributed by the government for agriculture. As farm boundaries appear on the landscape, the cattle have less free land to graze on—a tragic trend.
Kan Singh Marudi and Deepa Ram, the bhopa, who had accompanied me in my car the previous day, came to bid farewell. I thanked them, and gave Deepa Ram a pattu, a coarsely woven local handloom shawl. Shafi came to Ramsar soon after they had left and said he would be with me throughout my rounds in this area. Our first meeting was in Chadar, under a swaying neem tree. Narain Singh, who belongs to this village and has kindly allowed me to use his house in Barmer during the course of the campaign, had organized it and, as usual, I was taken to task for not visiting earlier. I had to tell them repeatedly that I had been there, although without much notice, so it was possible that information might not have reached everybody. Some recalled my visits and supported my case. This helped silence the others.
There was hardly much of a meeting at Chadi—my election agent Swarup Singh’s village—when, in fact, he should have been there to organize it. I did not tell the party leadership about his absence. I did not want to enter into another controversy in the midst of the election, and especially not over my election agent.
Today’s run went all the way to near Chohtan village, and we reached Khariya Rathoran. This was again a largely Muslim gathering, and very voluble in expressing their electoral support. I recognized a number of them who had visited my house in Delhi when they had come to get visas for Pakistan. From here, we headed for Sehlau with an increased number of vehicles in tow. I am not one for large convoys but it is difficult to stop people from coming along.
I was not sure who would be at Sehlau. This was the peak period of the largest cattle fair in western Rajasthan, when a number of people head that way. So it was a pleasant surprise when the junior Pir came to receive me. I told him that I thought he would have gone to the fair. He said his father had, but should be returning any moment. In the meantime we went to the dargah for the customary prayers. I was very touched when the senior Pir arrived, for he had driven back almost 250 kilometres to be present for my visit to his village. He then promptly asked me why I did not go to the fair, which is so close to my village. I did not tell him that the industrial effluents which have reached the fair venue keep me away from it.
We discussed the elections threadbare, and the junior Pir said they would sort out Fateh Khan, who had once been close to me but has opposed me since the Assembly elections. With the Congress as the ruling party in Rajasthan, he, too, has moved towards it. More so, since the local legislator is also a minister in the state government, and being in close proximity to him was helpful in getting contracts and other favours. He is from their village, and because of them, Fateh’s wife had been elected sarpanch unopposed.
Stopped at Khariya Gogaliya on the way back. Derawer Singh had organized a meeting and it was fairly well attended. But what really caught my eye was a twenty-something chap at the back of the hall wearing a T-shirt that said ‘ruck fules’. If I had taken a photo he would have become self-conscious and asked me why I was photographing him. I would have liked to show it to friends in Delhi as proof that Barmer has cool guys. There could be no one cooler than this guy in Khariya Gogaliya, of all places.
By the time I returned to Ramsar there was a group from Detani waiting to meet me. I kept Shafi sitting by my side so as to judge the situation. They wanted to offer their vehicles for the elections, and also or
ganize a meeting in Detani where nothing is supposed to move without the consent of Amin Khan. It is his village.
After they left, I finally got to speak with Hamir, as it was Sunday, the day on which his boarding school allowed parents to phone. He gave me some pleasing football scores, but since the Liverpool–Aston Villa match was later I could not share that with him. By the time I lay in bed, Liverpool were up 3–0 and it was only half-time. It was a most pleasant sleep.
23 March 2009
Today, for the first time, Sawai Singh—from one of the prominent families of Ramsar and influential in this area, and normally known as a Congress supporter—travelled with me. I think he and Jograj must have discussed matters and decided that he may as well openly support me, while Jograj would remain in the Congress. Shafi was very happy about this turn of events. And today Kishen came along as well. He had not been this deep into the Barmer district, and it would be his first foray near the border.
Our first stop was at Sajjan ka Paar. Kishen had once commented about every village in these parts being a ‘paar’. It is true—every village here is called ‘so-and-so ka paar’. And there must be a dozen of them at least, each named after someone who makes a traditional borewell in which the water is collected through the process of subsoil seepage, rather than being hauled up by a motor. Sajjan ka Paar was once exactly on the Radcliffe Line (which demarcates our border with Pakistan) but had to be moved back once the border fencing was put up. People here once again complained about not having received any compensation for being moved. I had inquired about it earlier, but according to the Union home ministry records, the monies had been sent. Pandhi ka Paar repeated their long-standing demand for a railway crossing in order to access their fields. During the conversion of the line to broad gauge, they seem to have lost their crossing. I went into a long-winded explanation about how every railway crossing requires clearance from the Railway Board, and how every accident that happens in the country puts our case further back. I do not think they accepted my reasoning.
Campaign Diary Page 5