Shafi did one of his ‘night-time raids’ again tonight. He had told me last night that he would organize it at his house in Barmer, this time with the Meghwals. When I reached there I overheard Shafi telling somebody, while people were still busy settling down, that Muslims and Meghwals are raashi brothers, as well as kabar (grave) brothers (among the Hindus, the Meghwal community is one of the few that buries its dead). The Muslims had come here last night and vowed support, and the Meghwals should do the same, he added. Clever line, I thought.
There were many familiar faces, but the one I was most delighted to see was that of Hema Ram of Ramsar. I recalled him from my first election and that he had been served tea in a different cup then. It is an image of caste differentiation that remains embedded in my memory, and unfortunately it is a practice still prevalent in the area. I had not seen him for a long time. He had been one of the staunch BJP workers of the area but had then drifted off. After trying out the Bahujan Samaj Party he seemed to have gone into the shadows. The tenor of the meeting was identical to the one last night, and there were similar assurances too. But Hema Ram seemed to have paid no heed to my words about never using intermediaries for he made a speech saying that if anybody needed help from me, all they had to do was get in touch with him, and he would make sure that it was done. His words were met with a stony silence for they went totally against all the assurances we had made to them. The logic behind these late-night meetings was to acknowledge the people’s wish not to have any intermediaries, and for me to make direct contact with them, and yet Hema Ram’s speech was solely about offering himself as a dalal that nobody wanted in the first place. Poor chap.
28 March 2009
Today’s round was centred on Barmer, in that all the villages to be covered were but a stone’s throw from the district headquarters—so close that the residents of these villages commute daily to work in the town. Many of the villages on today’s route were connected to me by virtue of belonging to the same clan. With a Zee TV team travelling with me, I was a bit anxious about the clan moods getting recorded because there are invariably some who resent my friendship with the opposite group in the village. Even if they are from the same clan, they are divided by village-level politics, with each group wanting its own sarpanch. A diatribe by anyone makes for a vivid sound bite, something that I would like to prevent. Jalipa was the first meeting and I reached the venue before the village members did, but that gave me time to visit the Nagnechi temple adjoining the hall. I realized only later that the hall had in fact been sanctioned from my MPLADS funds. It is a scattered village and the attendance was sparse. I had not expected much else.
At Chuli, however, there was a very impressive gathering. Best of all, the squabbling clan members were all together, a show of unity that should look good on Zee TV, I thought. The meeting was held in a plantation near a family temple so there was a lot of shade and a good breeze. The TV crew got many volunteers for sound bites, too. Bhadres was next; for me, it is important as the birthplace of Ishardasji, the most famous Rajasthani poet, who died in Gujarat in the seventeenth century. I carry one of his books with me in my small, portable prayer station. I used to visit a temple erected in his honour before attending any programme. Now, the association with Bhadres is also the thermal-power project, due to which I came into conflict with the government over the matter of land acquisition. The state and the Central governments pushed for land acquisition, giving rise to a lot of local resentment. The cooling towers can be seen from a mile away as one approaches the village. I had also made a complaint to the police about the project because it is west of National Highway 15, and any foreign national crossing it has to take prior permission. The project manager had been taking Chinese engineers across it with impunity before I complained. Despite the complaint, no action was taken against the manager or the Chinese who violated the visa regulations. The district authorities had promised action, but I challenged them, saying that the rich were beyond the law and that they would never be able to make the charges stick. And they had not.
In Barmer, large distances separate most villages, but Bishala is a rare exception, being just ten kilometres from Bhadres. They are both almost like satellite settlements of the town, except that Bishala is bigger, louder and more diverse. The meeting here was well attended and full of good words of support, but it also had some who had had far too much to drink so early in the day. I wondered how they managed to handle both the drink and the heat together. It was just as well that the Zee TV crew did not get footage of them.
I was looking forward to Bishala Agore, the next stop, for that was the village of Bhakar Singh, one of the gentlest men in this part of the district, who had earlier been sarpanch. He could always be counted on for good advice. After this meeting, I told the Zee TV chap that, though it was getting hot, he was not to expect me to use the air conditioning in my car. He had been sitting with me throughout, chatting and asking questions between village halts. He was very pleasant company—a change from most journalists who accompany me on the campaign trail and tend to be boring, with the same set of questions and prejudices. So, not surprisingly, after Sura he didn’t get into my car with me—he was in the air-conditioned car following mine, sitting with Bhupesh, the biggest (in size) stringer in Barmer.
Jaayadu is the home of Maulvi Abdul Karim, the first in his community to join the BJP. In fact, he joined when it was still called the Jan Sangh, and so he can be called a real veteran of the party. He had once told me how some of his ilk would call him a kafir. When he was ignored by the local BJP for a long period, he withdrew from politics, but did not dream of joining any other party. He would never want the stigma of changing political allegiances. As always, he had put together a reasonably good meeting.
Halepotra ki Basti was next, and they were largely of the maulvi’s clan, the Halepotra. Two tractor trolleys had been attached together to form a stage. There was much gifting of safas and ajrakhs. The Zee TV chap looked disbelieving throughout the meeting and said as much to me as we drove away—he could not believe that there was such a large Muslim presence under the BJP flag.
Indroi was next and I was now once again in the clan circle. It is a sharply divided village, in terms of political allegiance. I had been cultivating both sides and was now nervous which one was going to begin complaining in public. Though most politicians prefer the predictability of set associations and allegiances, I like the friction of opposing groups and ideas. All the same, I wondered how it would appear to a TV journalist. But, luckily, the Zee TV crew left before we entered the village. And sure enough, I had complaints hurled at me—all couched in words which suggested that no development works had been undertaken. Not more than twenty feet from where I sat listening to this litany of complaints, there was a community hall that had been sanctioned through my MPLADS funds. I felt like pointing to that hall and reminding them, but that would not have helped.
Siyani and Aanta were next, and both had fairly sparse attendance. At Aanta, I had to listen to the same complaints as at Indroi, but I did not need to say anything in my defence because an elderly Rabari sitting by the side spoke up, saying: ‘Our lands were saved by him, otherwise they would have been acquired by the government of India. How can we not be grateful to him?’ I thanked him silently, for he was referring to land that had been earmarked for inclusion in the expansion of the local army cantonment. I had petitioned the ministry of defence to prevent it.
Derasar sits squarely on the road that connects Barmer to the border with Pakistan. It is one of those villages where a crowd is a mere shout away, so the meetings here are always impressive. The last time I was here was for a big urs, and one which involved a ‘phone call speech’ from a syed in Pakistan. Since the syed, who has followers here, could not get a visa, he substitutes by giving a sermon over the phone. I thought that was very much like Altaf Hussain of the Muttahida Quami Movement (MQM) in Pakistan, except that his speeches are video telecast as well. It must be a trend catching o
n in Sindh. The meeting was held in a house under construction beside the main road. Since it was cool enough now, I moved outside as the house became very stuffy, with body heat and smells. The sand had cooled enough to sit on, and I enjoyed the garrulous company at Derasar.
But at Bola, the next halt, we were so late that most people had already returned to their hamlets. There were barely five hands to shake there. Tirsangadi was the last stop for today, for a condolence meeting for an old lady who had just passed away. There was a large number gathered but I did not think it was proper to talk politics on such an occasion. And it was too late in the day to join in the mourning as the sun had already set, so I condoled with Sayam, the village BJP leader, and took my leave.
29 March 2009
Today is the last day of the Shiv rounds. Shiv is now being considered the centre of gravity. More than for any other reason, it is due to the mood of the Muslim voter that there is so much focus on Shiv. The Muslim vote was decisively in favour of the BJP during the 2004 election, thus breaking the Congress coalition of communities, and they remained the determining factor of the election. But now they even had a minister in the state government (Amin Khan), and one who was putting a lot of pressure on them to break them from supporting me.
Chandan, a local journalist who strings for some wire services, and his team were ahead, preparing for the meetings in Fogera and Redana. These passed off well enough. At Dudhoda, however, the mood was weird, although, once again, I was the first MP to visit there. It was particularly awkward at the math, but then I wondered if it was because of all the drinking that must have been under way on account of the Gangaur festivities and the presence of guests. What emphasized the lack of warmth and enthusiasm was the tug at my sleeve as we dispersed from the math. I had not paid adequate respect to the muthadeesh, the head of the local math, I was told. I had never heard that one before.
Ganpat Singh Tanu, now a Congressman but once prominent in the youth wing of the BJP, once again accompanied me and he stayed with me as we completed the Shiv round. This is his area as the Tanu village lies in this belt. He fell out with the BJP over the ‘border-land sales’ issue but has remained friendly with me. The visit to Jhanakli was thoroughly enjoyable. It was a meeting with free-flowing conversation rather than speeches. The Congress and the BJP were sitting in the same room, and the repartee between Hukum Dan, the village BJP leader, and the others was very pleasant. Bhanwar Dan, a Congressman, was his usual gracious self. Both are from the bard community of Charans and are influential well in excess of their numbers. The latter, too, had accompanied us to Hinglaj Mata, as Amin Khan had requested him to. His quiet, self-effacing manner during the Hinglaj trip had deeply impressed me. Despite being in the Congress and close to Amin Khan, he continues to maintain good relations with me.
When leaving the meeting venue I noticed a crowd at one end of the village. Soon some of them came and informed me that it was a gathering of Muslim Kumbhars from all over the Barmer and the Jaisalmer districts. Somebody important had passed away and it was the big day for mourning. Despite being a sizeable community, it is surprising that the Kumbhars do not figure on any political radar.
As we approached Undrod, the last village of the Shiv Assembly constituency, Ganpat asked whether I remembered the Undrod mosque matter. I could only recall that it had involved a petition for allowing repairs to the mosque, and that there had been some in the village who were opposing it. Then he explained that the mosque repair issue had been raised only to settle scores in the village and that I had been taken for a ride. Luckily, those for and against were all Muslims so there was no sectarian touch to it. Thankfully, when we reached Undrod, no reference was made to that controversy. This was my first visit to the village, and its sociology took my breath away. Dominated by a clan that had converted to Islam from my own, the village was proud of its Nagnechi temple and its oran—an area of land reserved in the name of a deity or a goddess—which went all the way to the Jaisalmer district, at least twelve kilometres away. I drove through it on a rough dirt track when I left Undrod and told them I would come back later for a temple visit. ‘Come on satam [the seventh day of the Indian calendar],’ they said, ‘as we have a large gathering on that day.’
The track exited at Jhinjhinyali in the Jaisalmer district, and I needed to spend the night nearby in Guhda, where they were holding the annual fair for Sada Ramji, one of the most important local deities. The fair attracted pilgrims from all over western Rajasthan. I had been there many times earlier, including once during the fair, but this was the first time that I would be spending the night there. Dwarka Ram, a descendant of Sada Ramji, was as effusive as ever when he saw me and he took me around to say my prayers at the shrine, continuously asking people to make way. I told him to let everybody be since we were all there for the same purpose, and there should not be any ‘VIP darshan’. He laughed at that but continued to ask people to move aside—a practice that always makes me very uncomfortable. The bhajans were well under way by the time I finished my round of the shrine, and I enjoyed some exquisite singing. I carry some bhajans on my iPod but today, for the first time, I heard Dhana Ram sing. He was mesmerizing, and I told Dwarka Ram that I would like to record him some day. A young boy sitting beside him constantly tried to catch my eye. When the bhajan ended and the customary salutations were being exchanged, he grabbed the mike and blurted: ‘MP sahib ki jai.’ Embarrassed, I cut him off. When I left to retire for the night, the boy introduced himself as Ramesh from Mapudi, and of the same family as the old woman who had recently moved from Pakistan with my help.
My tent was far enough to offer me privacy and yet close enough for me to fall asleep with the bhajans ringing in my ears.
30 March 2009
I woke up very early to the sound of bhajans, but also because of the cold. The sand dune had cooled rapidly last night, and it was very cold inside the tent. Luckily, I had a razai with which to cover myself. After a numbing cold-water bath, I went back to the shrine and enjoyed my first live prabhatiya (the early morning ritual of singing) in many years. On account of our special bond, I asked Ramesh to tie on my wrist the moli that is received from the shrine. When I had visited the shrine during the 2004 elections, I had stepped over a local variety of krait at the entry of the shrine. The local priests with me had then shouted out loudly that I had been blessed by Sada Ramji. This time, there was no such darshan.
After a quick breakfast, I headed back to Barmer, and thought I crossed the Congress candidate Harish Chowdhury’s vehicle leaving Kunda. It was quick going to Barmer in the early hours, so I was in time to catch up with Data and my brother Dimpu. After a long time, we were to spend some time together. It was wonderful being with them, albeit fleetingly, as my father had his own programmes to attend and so did I.
I was headed to a mourning function at Mahabar, at Pahad Singh’s dhani. I like him very much. He is the sarpanch and has a saintly look in his eyes. I noticed the water tanks outside the dhani as we drove in. The dhanis on the outskirts of Mahabar had been cut off from the main water-supply scheme and, at his request, I had recommended these tanks from my MPLADS. Now they had them, brimming with water.
Among the visitors was one from Mada, in the Jaisalmer district, with a grouse—not against me personally, but on account of some land dispute involving his clan member and the people from my grandmother’s village. I had had nothing to do with this dispute ever since it had erupted, but nevertheless, the perception was that if I wanted it, there could be a resolution. He began on that note, but after some time took on a heckling note. Some of the older guests present told him rather firmly to shut up. I left, much relieved.
Back in Barmer, it was very hot but there was a breeze blowing. Nobody knew I was there and I had not made any other programmes for the afternoon. I opened the windows, drew the curtains and had my first afternoon nap in many, many months. I woke up a bit sweaty but feeling much better.
I had been informed earlier about the visit of
Bhagwan Singhji, sangh pramukh of the Kshatriya Yuvak Sangh. He is another saintly type, and I enjoy spending time with him. He had an audience of prominent local persons sitting on the floor before him, and he bade me sit on a chair. I told him that was not proper, with so many of my seniors seated on the floor. Laughing, he said, ‘We have to put you on a chair, so sit on this without arguing.’ We then discussed future prospects, loose ends that needed to be tied up and difficult characters. He said he would make another round before polling day. Leaving him in Barmer, I headed, once again, for the Rabaris.
Kheema Ram is a bhopa of Vankal Mata temple, one of my favourite temples in the district. He had been calling me during the last few weeks to say that I had made a vow to visit his temple after the 2004 elections but had not kept it. Since we were still observing Navaratra, I thought it would be best to visit him today. It is a beautiful drive towards his dhani, and people were already waiting on the road when I reached—a number of children of varying ages and a few adult males, among them Kheema Ram. Seating arrangements had been made outside his little temple, and I lit a jyot there, as the sun had set over the dunes. There was no electricity anywhere nearby. The ambience was heavenly. He searched inside the temple and brought out a garland that he said had been given to me for the 2004 elections and had now been made up again with the blessings of Vankal Mata. I was quite moved and did not hesitate when he asked us all to accompany him to his dhani across the road.
Although it was quite dark, there was still enough light for me to notice the beauty of the little girls hovering around. Other than the Sindhi Muslims in the villages, it is only Rabari girls who wear the traditional attire and colours from their early years. They looked absolutely lovely. I remembered Harshini then because today she would have been dropped off at her boarding school, Mayo Girls, and would once again have to get used to coping by herself. There was a distinct tug at my heart, and I got up to leave soon thereafter.
Campaign Diary Page 8