As I was leaving Murad’s house, I spoke with Shafi, who is amongst my staunchest supporters, about Abdullah, a young man who has jumped on to my bandwagon and has been constantly calling me from Gagariya and pestering me for money. This was the first time Muslims, too, were asking for money to spend during elections—last time, there had been no such demands. Shafi agreed with me that we would not pay anyone anything.
On the way back from Gunga, Hukum Singh, my driver, had told me in the car that Harish, the Congress candidate, had held a big meeting in Tapra. At night, that triggered off something in my mind for I woke up early, worried, since Tapra is close to home and is considered a ‘safe’ village.
4 April 2009
Today could be the first match I get to see in weeks. It all depends on how I handle my programmes and whether I manage to get back in time. I am really looking forward to it, as Fulham have been a good team at home. It should be a cracking match. Keeping a constant eye on the clock, I left early enough to be at Ibrahim Fakir’s dargah well before the scheduled hour. I was visiting here after a long time, and it looked the same to me except for all the outside construction done under the MP Local Area Development Scheme. We then went to his dhani where his son Hanif was present. Hanif is the up-pradhan of the Baytu panchayat samiti, and has a dodgy look. Although his father wants to help, he keeps getting pulled back by Hanif. There was a brief round of speeches, after which Umaid Ali Fakir thumped me on the back as a sign of blessings. It is usually done gently, as a token, but he whacked me with a hard blow that stung. His simple smile told me it was meant to be only a blessing.
Umaid Ali Fakir accompanied us to a Rajput dhani to pay our condolences since the math bapji’s brother had passed away. It was quite a charming sight to see Umaid Ali Fakir sitting alongside the saffron-clad head of a math. Many would call it secularism and syncretism; I merely call it India.
It had become hot and windy by the time we reached Lakhetali for a wedding. Luckily for me, I was seated at the open end of the tent, where the shade and the breeze combined to make it bearable. As the local fakir, Umaid Ali sat in the centre, and all the guests were scattered under various covers and shade. But soon after we arrived, they converged in the tent to make an impressive meeting. The mood had picked up sufficiently by the time it was my turn to speak and, without any hesitation, I told the gathering: ‘This election is as much my test as it is yours. Since the word is being spread around that I tend to favour the Muslims, now it is up to you to decide how committed you remain to my principle of treating everyone equally.’
I was disappointed to learn during the discussion that followed that the stone crusher nearby was still in operation. It causes a lot of pollution in their homes and has even encroached on the agore of the naadi. I had complained about it a number of times without any results, so obviously there are other interests at work.
As we were nearing Barmer, I got a call from Arjun Prajapat, who contested the last Lok Sabha election as an independent, about a district-level Sansi meeting. That was unusual, for the Sansis are the poorest of the poor and would not have the resources to organize such a meeting. In Rajasthan they are categorized as Scheduled Castes, and in Gujarat as OBCs, but the benefits of reservation have yet to reach them, they are so marginalized. When I came to the venue—an elaborate one at that—I learnt that the event had been called by ‘Madi’ who had come from Gujarat to uplift his community. And then there was much explanation about an elaborate moneylending scheme for the community, which sounded completely bizarre to me. ‘Madi’ had retired for lunch and a siesta when I reached but word was sent to him. He drove up almost to the stage, and when he alighted I was surprised by his attire and jewellery. It must be hot and stuffy inside all that finery, I thought to myself. He introduced himself as a doctor and explained that it was his wish to unify and uplift the community. ‘We have thousands in the US, too,’ he said. I am fascinated by the Sansis’ language, I told him, as it sounds like nothing spoken by others in the area. He said that it would be an interesting subject for research, and I agreed that it certainly would. We parted with handshakes and a photo session. (It was only after the election that the scam broke, and he became a much-wanted man in Gujarat. He was accused of getting crores of rupees from his community, without a logical explanation as to how it would benefit them.)
I finally mustered up enough courage to drop in on Jograj Singh Rajpurohit. He had been my guide during the first election and although there were no hard feelings, we just seemed to have drifted apart. He was disillusioned about the party and had announced his resignation some months ago. He commanded respect, and because of his proximity to my father and all that it entails, I was hesitant to ask him what the problem was. But Devi Singh, his nephew in Balotra, had told me that things had got to the point where, some day, I would have to face him and clear the air. So, on the spur of the moment, I decided to visit him at his home in Barmer. He vented his spleen on me because he feels taken for granted by the party, generally, and by me particularly. Since he’d contested the Barmer Lok Sabha election twice in the past, there was some merit in what he said. It was good that he spoke so frankly to me, for it meant that there was still some mutual trust. And then he saw me off with some jaggery, an auspicious sign.
By now, it was late afternoon and, with the next programme some hours away, I was debating what to do in between when Chandan sent me a text message about an accident involving schoolchildren near Ramji ki Gol. I rushed there and it was nearing sunset by the time we arrived. Shrouded in white sheets, the children lay on the sand by the side of the highway. When Natha Ram bent to uncover the face of one of the children, I stopped him. The children were ferried to and from school every day in an open jeep, and today, while trying to take a ‘shortcut’ to the highway, the driver had gone under one of the big trailers. I saw the jeep flattened and thought about the agony of the children getting crushed under that trailer. Unbearable.
There had been much controversy about the Basra fair over the past few days, with some calling to say I should not go there, and others saying I should. Since there was a local request, I decided to ignore the rivalry among the maulvis and to attend the event. It had been a largish event a couple of years ago. We landed up at Derasar and then, accompanied by Maulvi Taj Mohammed, Maulvi Sher Mohammed and the junior Pir of Luni Sharif, we headed for Basra. We reached the guest house and waited there until, I presumed, it was time to reach the meeting place. But that was not to be: although Maulvi Sher Mohammed ran the show with great aplomb, I was not taken to the venue. I suspect it was due to a struggle between the maulvis, and since no Congressman had arrived—or been invited—they did not want the BJP maulvis to get the upper hand. I never got to the bottom of this episode, but it was intriguing, and unusual. During the last elections there wouldn’t have been such divisions amongst the maulvis, but now that the Congress was in power in Rajasthan, some of their supporters were wanting to make a public display of their strength.
I finally got home in time for some of the match. By the time I had eaten, it was still nil–nil, and just as Chitra began to say how fed up she was of waiting, Yossi Benayoun scored an impossible-angle goal. I yelled in joy, and Chitra asked me to shut up, saying the neighbourhood will think their MP is going mad. Even after I closed my eyes to sleep, the goal kept on flashing in front of me.
5 April 2009
Today was the first day I drove in an air-conditioned vehicle in the constituency. It was only because Murad was driving in his swanky Škoda to a wedding lunch at Bhiniyana that Abdul Rehman was giving for his daughter’s marriage, and we decided to go together. Bhiniyana had been in my constituency until the recent delimitation exercise, and it was now part of the Jodhpur seat. By the time we reached, the wind had picked up considerably, and all the big tents were just managing to hang in there. It was a big show, and I had to attend since Abdul Rehman was easily the brightest pradhan I have worked with during my tenure. I missed meeting Sang Singh by a few min
utes. He had been the MLA for Jaisalmer when this belt was also part of it. He must have been the only other BJP person there. Chandresh Kumari’s meeting was under way in a side tent when we reached. It seemed as if the entire Jodhpur and Jaisalmer Congress was in attendance. I waited outside, meeting old familiars until she had finished. She is the Congress candidate for Jodhpur, but she also happens to be my cousin and I have very affectionate memories of her from childhood days in Raika Bagh, Jodhpur. When she came out, I greeted her respectfully—she being my elder—and then went for lunch. I was not carrying any packed food today, and just as well since it would have gone to waste. The fresh gunda and sangri looked simply divine, and I dug into my first spicy food in over a month. It was truly tasty. By the time we drove back to Barmer, the breeze had turned into strong gusts of wind, and dust was swirling all over the road. But Murad’s Škoda made the drive very comfortable.
After a brief rest in Barmer, and a discussion with Chitra about programmes, I left for Kundanpura. There was no meeting fixed, but Kundanpura seems to have become a kind of operational headquarters for the Chohtan area, and people had gathered at Haji Dost Mohammed’s house to plan events. After that, we left together for Bhanwaar as there were mixed reports about which way Kalu Khan was tilting. He had been a loyal supporter since my first election, and his family had been firmly anti-Congress, even producing a pradhan on a Ram Rajya Parishad symbol. The rumour was that he had been given inducements of some directorship or some such thing. It was dark and quiet when I reached his house in the village, but he swore continuing loyalty.
This pleased the others who were with me, and we left for Panoriya to attend a Bishnoi wedding. Local party politics had delayed the construction of a road that would have helped this dhani as well as others around it. The road has finally been made; Mala Ram, the village sarpanch, made a point of showing it to me, and expressed his gratitude for my intervention, as did those present at his dhani. I ate only a little of the halwa as I had to reach Jaisalmer that night and carry out the next day’s programmes on time. But on the way back to Barmer, I decided against going on to Jaisalmer as it was too late to drive on the highway. I avoid late-night highway driving as much as possible, but it still did not stop Chitra from chiding me when I got back: ‘Why don’t you organize your meetings better?’ Ouch!
6 April 2009
I got up early today to leave for Jaisalmer. Checked the Sunday football scores and saw that Man United had won. It spoilt the morning—my favourite time of the day. And then Prakashji, the General Secretary of the BJP in Rajasthan, called, to make matters worse. He said that things were very difficult, that people were not responding, and so on. This is exactly what someone had said to me five years ago, and now it was being said again, but by a different person, one of whom I am fond. I wonder what to make of it.
Today, for the first time, Chitra and I drove together. She would be with me again on a brief Jaisalmer trip to cover some villages that I had missed previously because of late information about meetings, and also to attend some important marriages. As we neared Jaisalmer town, we were joined by others at Rawalkot. We left in a convoy of three vehicles and reached Ramgarh exactly in time for the meeting. I was happy about that—having driven more than 200 kilometres and still being on time. Being punctual does good things for my reputation.
Nothing, however, changed Ramgarh’s reputation as far as I was concerned. It is a strange outback kind of village, whose market attracts all kinds of people during the day—from local farmers living along the canal to Border Security Force soldiers and snoops from every kind of agency. It also has one of the strangest political families in my constituency, and I sent Chitra to meet the women of the house. Strange in the sense of their attitude towards me, as I have become somewhat estranged from them. Despite living in this back-of-beyond place, the Ramgarh politicos, constantly squabbling, are masters at stirring up trouble and creating divisions among the people. The meeting stage consisted of a tractor trolley, covered with bedding, under a tent. Simple enough, except when it came to getting on to it and speaking. I tried to give my speech standing on the makeshift platform, but my safa kept brushing the tent, so I jumped down, on to pebbles that poked through the soles of my shoes during the address.
The drive from Ramgarh to Tanot is always something to which I look forward, for the sheer expanse and sense of space, and I enjoyed it once again. When I stopped in between to suggest lunch, Bhanwar Singh, a youthful sarpanch with a bright future in local politics, surprised me by saying that there was a guest house in Tanot where one could do that. Before Tanot, we had our darshan at the Ghantial Mata temple, as is customary. Over the years, this temple has seen more external changes than I can think of in any other temple in my constituency, but its sanctum sanctorum remains just as it was on my first visit as a student. The memories of that first visit flooded back while Chitra and I were doing the puja. When we were ushered into the guest house at Tanot I was surprised: it was swanky, and with a clean loo as well. It had an air conditioner too but, like all such places, had a musty, dingy air when we walked in. I did my routine once again—opened the curtains and switched off the lights. I turned around to Chotu Singh, the local Jaisalmer MLA, and told him we would make do with the available light, as it would help save a lot of energy.
On the way back, I asked Bhanwar Singh to slow down as we crossed Ranau Tar. I had heard about the entire village being electrified using a hybrid solar–wind system. Jaisalmer had a very bright collector and he had pushed this solution for Ranau Tar as it would not have managed to get on to the grid in a million years. Unfortunately, other politicians did not like him and he was not allowed to stay in Jaisalmer for very long. Now I am told that he has changed his cadre as well. In the whole of India, I think Ranau Tar voters live the farthest distance from their polling booth. I had requested an additional polling booth for this village but I do not know whether it will happen in time for this election. Last time, they had to go all the way to Ramgarh.
The workers’ meeting was in full flow by the time we reached the party office in Jaisalmer town. Jaisalmer is different in that it has a full-time party office—not many small towns can claim that distinction. It was a boisterous meeting and full of confidence. It ended with declarations of the extent of the margin that Jaisalmer would provide me in the elections, and Din Mohammed Fakir set the benchmark at 52, 000. I merely smiled at that and said, ‘Let us see.’ Some vestiges of Prakashji’s apprehensions about the way this election was going must have remained in my mind for they kept echoing inside me, well into the night. I woke up a number of times, and finally I got up early as I could not sleep.
7 April 2009
Today is exactly a month since my candidature was announced, and I have travelled thousands of kilometres since that announcement, across the two districts that make up my constituency. I am already beginning to feel the difference from last time. This time around there is a lack of energy that is so palpable—all around, in the party workers, and in the villages. Change of power in the state government at Jaipur makes so much difference, I suppose.
Today was a day of hopping between weddings. I decided to start with the villages rather than the town as I wanted to be there before the guests left—for the Muslims in the villages, the functions start early in the morning and by noon they are virtually over.
I reached Sodhat well in time, for the guests were still coming in. Umaid Ali Fakir was already there, since these were his clansmen, he being a Mangaliya. The Mangaliyas stretch across both districts and are present in three tehsils. The Mangaliya is amongst the more influential of the Muslim clans, large in number and showing that strength in politics as well. A number of them have been ministers in Sindh, so the clout has an international dimension to it as well. I declined lunch, both on account of it being Tuesday, my day of fast, and as it was too early. It would be difficult to last the whole day if I ate this early. I told them about the fast and, as a token, had some jaggery which, t
hey said, was the most auspicious thing to have. Maulvi Saleh Mohammed surprised me by his arrival. He must have left Demba, his village, very early to reach here, almost 230 kilometres away. By the time I took their leave, Durjan Singh, amongst my staunchest supporters even after he has joined the Congress, had reached, and he accompanied me through the day.
We were now heading back into the Barmer district, and to a village that I had never visited. Near Girab, we had to ask for directions to Dabadi, and it was fairly heavy going in the sand to reach Rahamatullah’s wedding function. Despite the difficult location, he had a large show going, with many tents. As my Scorpio neared the main venue, I was surprised by the election slogans that greeted me. I told them, in deep embarrassment, that this was a wedding day and not an election rally. But the children would not stop. On the way out, I bumped into Amin Khan who was heading for the wedding function. He stopped and got out of the jeep to greet me. It seemed to me, and to those with me, that he meant to say something, but was holding himself back from doing so. Bachhu, a local small-time contractor, who had been absent all the times I went to Khalifa ki Bawri, was with him, and he could have been the cause of Amin Khan’s awkward silence. I will never know, but it was an awkward meeting, and entirely on account of his odd body language.
We lunched under a large khejdi tree and then stopped at Deora and Chelak for a couple of condolence meetings. It was almost late afternoon by the time I reached Chotu Khan’s function in Jaisalmer, but since it was in the town, there were still a fair number of people there. As I walked in, I saw Goverdhan Kala and touched his feet in respect. He had once been a Congress MLA from Jaisalmer. The conversation at Chotu Khan’s was largely about the Bahujan Samaj Party and its impact on the elections. A BSP candidate in the Assembly elections had been calling me, saying that if I paid him a certain amount of money, he would campaign for me, but I kept it to myself. I had now stopped even taking his calls. This practice has become more common over the last few years.
Campaign Diary Page 10