Campaign Diary

by Manvendra Singh

  Data and Dimpu were back at Barmer by the time I got home and gave me the happy news from the Sedwa meeting where Haji Dost Mohammed had formally joined the BJP instead of supporting me from the outside. Over dinner, Data dropped a bombshell when he asked for our opinion about his contesting from Darjeeling. It was too much of a shock, and I do not recall any sensible comment made by either of us. I had never been to Darjeeling, and I don’t think my brother had either. And Gurkha politics was the furthest thing from our political experience, limited as it had been to the desert.

  31 March 2009

  Since my stay in Ramsar, I had been walking around with a thorn in each foot. I do not remember exactly how I got them, but they kept getting embedded deeper and were becoming more than an irritation. I managed to squeeze and scrape out one of them, but the right foot still bothered me. I mentioned this to Prem Dan, a television reporter, when he came to see me this morning. We were sitting in the tent that had been put up outside the house. He made me sit on a chair and then, with pin and needle, slowly got the thorn out of my foot. It hurt when he was doing his trick, but the relief was well worth it. I mentioned it to Babu Kotadia, a businessman from a village near Shiv, when he arrived a little later, and added that both thorns that had been removed were from the Shiv Assembly area. He was distinctly happy to hear this, and I wondered if he was referring to the same two thorns that I was alluding to. No names were mentioned, for I suppose there was no need for that. Since my time as an MP, my association with the Shiv Assembly segment had come to be dominated by Amin and Roshan Khan. I had helped both overtly during the last five years, but now both were campaigning actively for the Congress, and I took the removal of the thorns as a sign of getting them out of my system.

  A clutch of executives from a TV channel came to see me this morning. They arrived soon after the thorn-removing episode. After the formalities, and without hesitation, they made me an offer that took me by surprise. They offered a coverage package based on monies to be paid by me. There was a ratio worked out by them for the amount of money to be paid for telecast time. Not wanting to offend them, I gave a convoluted reply about having to ask the state party office for procedures and a tie-up through them. I wonder if they found my response convincing. (This was the last time we met, although there were a couple of phone conversations. There were to be some more such attempts and talks during the campaign, and this roundabout reply became the usual practice on my part.) In the last few years, this has become a trend with both the old and the new media groups, each vying with the other to sell news space. While some of the older papers and television channels completely avoid this practice, there are others who jump at any opportunity to make a quick buck.

  I reached Guda Mallani in the late afternoon and soon thereafter was informed about a TV story that claimed that my father had been caught on tape giving money to people. I did not take it seriously, right from the moment it came to my attention, for I know Data and his principles well enough. Barmer journalists informed me that it was a story done by two underemployed TV stringers, who had then sold it further. It was routine stuff as far as I was concerned, but obviously not so for people in Delhi. During a party workers’ meeting outside Ram Bagh in Guda Mallani, I was called by an English-language TV-channel reporter and asked to comment about my being present while these monies were being distributed. Getting cross with him, I said, ‘You had better get your facts sorted out for I was 200 kilometres away from that meeting, and if you do not make this clear, I will screw you and your boss together.’ I am on first-name terms with his boss, and I used a tone which shut him up quite quickly.

  I called Dimpu later at night to inquire about Data’s frame of mind and whether he was disturbed by the whole incident with the news on TV. He told me very casually that nobody was taking it seriously, and how happy they all were about the meetings, especially the one at Gagariya. I went to bed pleased about that.

  April 2009

  1 April 2009

  I woke up this morning feeling odd, although it was the same sky, the same village and that same strange light that precedes sunrise. Last night, for the first time while in Guda Mallani, I had not slept in Rana Pratap Niwas, my mother-in-law’s home. In the past, every night I had spent in Guda Mallani had been there, engaged in endless conversations with Suri Dada. He has become a close friend over the years, over and above our family’s old relationship with Mallani, further deepened since my marriage. The bond was strengthened by both of us going to the same school, and then added to by his being a cousin of my wife, Chitra. But now, Suri Dada is batting for the Congress, and I decided to put an end to the awkwardness of staying there and having the BJP workers feel humiliated by it.

  When I came to know that Ladu Ram Bishnoi, the BJP candidate for Guda Mallani during the Assembly elections, had changed the local programmes to give me a little free time, I grabbed the opportunity to squeeze in a visit to another fair at Dhanwa. It was quite a drive but well worth it, for the Bhola Nath fair attracts devotees from a number of tehsils. After paying my respects at the cenotaphs there, I came into the hall to find it packed. The head of the Sinli math motioned to me to sit near him and even offered a jajam. This is a traditional carpet and considered auspicious when it is offered in a temple. Gulab Singh Dakha, once a block development officer, was sitting near enough to notice it, and told me later when I was leaving that this was a very favourable sign. Somebody standing near my Scorpio remarked that I should look after small Rajputs, too. I turned and sharply told him there were already enough divisions in society, so please not to add any more.

  The prearranged programmes for the day were to start at Khudala, where we sat through some awkward moments in a highway dhaba where the meeting had been organized by a BJP worker who had opposed L. R. Bishnoi during the last Assembly elections. That was creating its own dynamics. The next stop was Haji Ibrahim’s dhani, which I had last visited on the first day of the year for a reception for pilgrims returning from the Hajj. At the next meeting, at Lolava, despite the village being in mourning because of a death in the morning, the meeting went ahead. I thought it odd and in polite words told one of the organizers that politics could have waited for the mourning to get over.

  The lunch halt today was distinguished by its utter dreariness. With absolutely no shade available and time schedules to take care of, we stopped by the side of the tollbooth for trucks carrying gravel from the dry bed of the Luni River. The toll-collection boys hovered around in disbelief all through the lunch. While we were packing up to leave, Bhupesh Acharya, a television stringer in Barmer, called to inform me about leaflets distributed at Data’s meeting in Shiv, accusing me of letting down the BJP candidate during the Assembly elections. He was certain about the source. He need not have bothered to tell me who it was, for I would have guessed easily. It was a former BJP MLA, who had done the same thing at somebody’s behest a couple of years ago: he had distributed what a Congress colleague in Parliament called ‘your love letter’. The leaflets were basically about my lack of support for him over the years. Among other things, it accused me of being anti-party. Today’s attack irritated me for a while because I would have to have an explanation for other people, should they ask. But I am certainly not answerable to an individual who has consistently been opposing me over some matter or the other without any justification. After thinking it through, my mind was at ease as we entered Payla.

  Here, Tej Singh, originally from this village but a sarpanch in another panchayat, had organized a huge meeting, and the number of women present surprised me. Progress had crept this far from Pachpadra and Siwana, I remarked to him. He most emphatically told me that I did not need to come back here for the rest of the campaign.

  In a way I wished we had not done the next programme at Kaga ki Dhani. Before I got into politics there had been a most brutal murder of a young girl in this village, and it had remained unsolved. Every time the investigation made a little progress, it would reach a dead end. I had spoke
n to one of the superintendents of police who had then reopened the case. The investigating officer told me after reading the case file that it was apparent the police did not want to probe, or were not allowed to. He was posted out of the district soon after that conversation, although I do not believe it had anything to do with this murder case. I felt bad when we entered the village since the matter was still pending, and when I was introduced to the dead girl’s father a chill ran down my spine. This was the first time I had met any of the family, and I sat in silent communion with them for some time. The head priest of the newly inaugurated temple changed the mood when he began to give me grief for not having attended any of his previous functions. I excused myself by saying that they had been held when Parliament was in session or when I was out of the country.

  On the way back to Guda Mallani, L. R. Bishnoi turned off the road to take me to a wedding function. The baraat was to leave later in the evening and we were well in time to give our good wishes to Amru Bishnoi for his son’s wedding. Just off the highway was the mourning programme at Mota Ram Meghwal’s place. After the customary solemn silence, and then greetings, Mota Ram began his litany of complaints—land that had been his over the years was acquired by the authorities to build a new highway through the area. His paperwork was a bit dodgy, and so compensation remained out of his reach. I told him he had never once informed me about it in the last five years, which he admitted. At night, while preparing to sleep on the roof, there was a call from another TV channel giving ‘good rates’ for coverage. I was getting better with my replies by now.

  2 April 2009

  Today is the last day in the Guda Mallani area. It has not been much of a tour in the regular sense, more of a toe dip. But it was still a useful round, and we should do well here, though only relatively speaking—because the Congress has always won this seat, and the BJP has never won this segment, in either the Assembly or parliamentary elections.

  As soon as L. R. Bishnoi arrived at my house, we left for Padardi and a Bishnoi khurch. This is a good system employed by many communities, whereby on the last day of mourning, and with all the expected guests present, marriages are celebrated for as many couples as possible. This helps save a lot of money for a lot of people. But there is always the danger of a child marriage taking place in the whole lot, and that was the major issue on my mind as we entered the dhani where the function was being held. I asked LR about this as we neared the thatched hut, and he convinced me that I need not worry. He is working really very hard, and that too at his age. Sometimes, when he gets up from the crossed-leg seating arrangement, I hear him groan and it saddens me. If I tell him to take it easy, he will take it amiss, as if I want him to step down from political activities.

  While we were at Padardi, we heard about a couple of farmers’ suicides. LR and I decided to check for ourselves, and we met both the Bhil and the Meghwal families affected by these incidents. The families themselves confirmed the causes—mounting debts in one case, and the other just gave up after years of fighting for his land rights. As suicide is something of a rarity in this part of Rajasthan, LR and I made out a statement asking for a thorough investigation into the cases and compensatory cover for the families. While the government took its own sweet time in putting out a rejoinder, I was saddened that no one in Jaipur had thought it worthwhile to take up the matter. Farmer suicides are a big issue in politics, and more so when the victims happen to belong to the Scheduled Caste (SC) or the Scheduled Tribe (ST), as in this case, but nothing transpired. I guess farmer suicides were not the flavour of the month any more.

  Today is also ashthami so there were people at the devi temples, and in Bhedana we had the meeting near the Nagnechi temple. It was very windy, and I had trouble lighting a jyot. This was a kul devi temple and I could not give up trying however long it took. When it was well lit, I looked at it with pride.

  Tej Singh had another big show, this time in Lunwa where he is the sarpanch, although his village is Payla. The day’s round ended in Nagar but not in the manner LR had had in mind. He had wanted the meeting in the presence of the Nagar sarpanch and Rao Saheb, but both were away from the village. We had the meeting near the highway where people had already gathered. I was nervous with all the big tankers going past and people wandering about, but thankfully, it passed without incident.

  Maulvi Saleh Mohammed called just as the meeting was getting over to inform me about the fair at Pir ki Jaal, and on the spur of the moment I decided we would go there. I asked Tej Singh and Sawda Ram to accompany me. As we neared Sanchore, I called Mohan Singh Chitalwana—a relative from my wife’s side and a political sharpie when it comes to the politics of this part of Jalore district—to ask where he was and to fix up a programme with him. He told me about the party meeting in Sanchore for Devji Patel, the BJP candidate from the Jalore parliamentary seat. In any case, I had wanted a photo op with Devji, since he was contesting in the neighbouring constituency and had a large number of his community in Barmer. At the meeting, when I was presented with a safa, I placed it on Devji’s head as a sign of my support. It is a more meaningful gesture to give one’s own safa, but the organizers would not have it. Basheer and Ghulam Hassan joined us before we reached Pir ki Jaal. I was surprised to see Ghulam Hassan as he had been moody the last few times I had met him.

  This was my first visit to Pir ki Jaal although the fair here is one of the biggest events for Muslims. But since it is not in my constituency, my plans had never materialized. I had once helped them get special permission for visitors from Pakistan to attend, as their Indian visas did not cover travelling to Pir ki Jaal. The Khalifa received me very warmly and took us into the sanctum sanctorum. It was more spacious and airier than most dargahs I have been in. While the mike was being fixed, I looked around and thought it was cool that even Muslims regard the jaal with a certain piety. As I’ve said before, the jaal is a tree treated with great reverence by my clan members in particular, but also across the district.

  In his speech, the Khalifa reminded the audience about my helping with the permissions for Pakistani visitors some years earlier. And in my speech, I told them about my prayer at the dargah—that I should succeed in escorting Makhdoom Hala to Pir ki Jaal some day. I wonder if that will ever happen. Makhdoom Amin Fahim of Hala should have been made prime minister of Pakistan following the death of Benazir Bhutto, but he lost out on account of some machinations. This dargah is connected to his family, and he is among the few who have both Hindu and Muslim followers. During the refreshments after the meeting, I was given the visitors’ book to sign. I wrote my comments in Hindi and then carefully signed in Arabic, memorized from my college days.

  I wanted to reach Barmer well in time to have a proper rest and be ready for the next day’s function, so I drove at night along a highway on which I am often nervous. Far too many accidents take place on this highway, particularly on the stretch on which I would be driving. As a rule, I try to avoid driving at night.

  3 April 2009

  The main election office for the entire campaign was opened this morning in Barmer town. Normally there is one main campaign office and a few smaller ones. In the case of Barmer parliamentary seat we normally end up having offices in Balotra town as well as Jaisalmer, so that the coordination in those areas in better handled. Today is also Ram Navami so it was naturally a good mahurat. Sushila Mehta and her ladies’ team were already there by the time Chitra and I reached. The short puja was done by both of us, and then everybody settled in the main hall for a workers’ meeting. I looked to check who had come, and found three prominent persons missing. I had spoken with two of them, and they had assured me they would attend. It was clear they were obeying somebody else’s signal, though this is not acceptable in terms of party discipline. Sitting among all those present, I said to myself, f*** them! But sweet old Parbat Singhji, once a soldier and later the founder-president of the BJP here, would have none of it. He took us all to the house of Dilip, a former BJP district president, but he wa
s in hiding somewhere and did not make an appearance. As this election campaign progressed it was becoming clearer to me that I really had to worry as much about opposition to me from some people within my own party, as from the Congress.

  After everyone dispersed, I left for Gunga to attend the Kumbhar nyat, a community gathering that draws participants from across the district. I had attended one some years ago and had been impressed by the organization of the event. This was as big and impressive as the one I had seen earlier. Tents—each marked for a particular village—had been put up in a circle, leaving an empty space in the middle. By the side was an enormous kitchen that catered all the meals during the event. The hosts were as effusive as ever, in stark contrast to Murar Dan, a former sarpanch, who was very uncommunicative. I do not know what irks him, and I did not go overboard trying to please him either. Over the last few years, he has probably wanted me to boost his clout in his village by keeping him as my mediator, something I am loath to do.

  After a late lunch, Chitra and I went to Murad’s house as his wife had been asking for a long time to meet us. Murad is the biggest granite exporter in the districts of Barmer and Jaisalmer. Saindad, who is a big leader of his community, also landed up there. I had helped him some years ago when he was falsely charged in a case. Such help is par for the course in local-level politics, and he had remained grateful to me for helping him out. Otherwise, he could have lost his job as a gram sewak, a panchayat secretary. When I asked him his forecast for the trend in this election, Saindad said it was still 50–50, but I thought matters were more complex, and there were hidden factors this time that could take us by surprise.