When leaving Pareu, I got a call from Raj K. Purohit that increased my stress levels considerably. He has been designated election supervisor by the party for the whole Jodhpur division. I was surprised because today was the first time he had called. As election in charge, he should have been calling and travelling through the district more often. He wanted to meet in Balotra, but I was still at least a couple of hours away. Besides, there was a big Meghwal khurch to attend at Khipsar before I could get there. By the time we reached, it had become a large gathering. We sat under a bright moon and listened to the older members holding forth. I left from there feeling chuffed by their support and optimism. By the time I reached Jasol it was almost midnight and Dimpu was already fast asleep.
11 April 2009
Another Pachpadra round began today, but this time with Amra Ram, former MLA and minister in the BJP government in Rajasthan. Last time I was here, he seemed to have tactfully distanced himself from me (as I’ve mentioned earlier, many of his people thought I had been party to his defeat as an MLA, because an uncle of mine had stood against him), but now, there was a commitment to have my programme coordinated by him, and with him. I picked him up from his house in Balotra, and we made our way to Chilanadi for the first function. We took the Patodi route, and a little while after crossing Gopdi I saw a sheep with its head stuck inside a copper matka. The speed of the Scorpio, the shock of seeing such a sight and the drone of the conversation from the rear left me no time to react. I regretted later not stopping and helping the poor thing out of its plight which, though not life-threatening, must still have instilled terror in the poor animal.
After we crossed Patodi, the crowds heading towards the Chilanadi programme became more apparent. About a couple of kilometres before the venue, even the numbers of those going there on foot increased significantly. This was the last straw as far as Amra Ram was concerned. ‘Look at them walking in this heat,’ he said. ‘Today, they are walking all this distance as there is free lapi at the end of it, but on polling day they will say, send us transport as we cannot walk all that way. [Lapi is a yummy sweet made out of wheat cooked in ghee and jaggery, always served on auspicious occasions, festivals or birthdays.] So, next election, we should write to the Election Commission for permission to serve lapi on polling day.’ Amra Ram went on and on with his sharp, scathing comments on the hypocrisy and deviousness of people, which had us in splits until we reached the dhani for the Kumbhar gathering. It was a huge affair, with people arriving even as we were leaving. I am sure some must have come from Shergarh as well, which was formerly in my constituency but is now in Jodhpur.
We had to go to Kalyanpur for a khurch among Amra Ram’s community. Amra Ram suggested another route, a shortcut that I had never seen before. It was a wonderful drive, and we made good time. There was a party waiting to accompany us from Kalyanpur and we had another convoy now. There was a fair gathering when we reached and, after a while, we were ushered into the inner room, I guess because some Congressmen were also expected. Once lunch was over, I was asked to go outside as some people wanted to sit alone with me. This was something I expected, as well as what was to follow. For starters, what was meant to be a secret session hardly remained so for more than five minutes, as a crowd began to hover around us. They began with the expected litany of complaints about how and why Amra Ram had been defeated, and I agreed with them totally. And then they said, what has happened cannot be undone, so let us look at the future, and their request is that I look after Amra Ram. I told them this was something they did not need to worry about as I would look after his interests, as I had always done. I ended by telling them if I won, they would be happy with what I did for Amra Ram. We parted on a positive, optimistic note.
Parlu is Amra Ram’s village, and there were a couple of condolence meetings to attend there. After going to both functions, we sat for a bit in the temple to escape the heat. There was not much of a gathering as it was not meant to be a meeting, but the discussion wound up with my being probed about the hall that had been requested near the big devi temple in the village. I assured them that it had already been recommended as an MPLADS project, and in the list published by the district authorities. They were easy after that.
But at the next stop, Kankrala, people were not so easily appeased. We were seated in the kotdi (the village chief’s house), and the conversation was meandering among mundane subjects, until someone opened the can that they had wanted to for a long time. The allegation was the expected one about my not having come there in five years. I tried to tell them that there may not have been a Kankrala visit but there had certainly been programmes in the panchayat. Besides, with more than 4000 villages, it was not possible for me to visit all of them, but I made sure every panchayat had been covered at least once. They did not buy my reasoning. Kankrala is an important village, they said, and it deserves attention. Realizing that there was no point in arguing or reasoning with them, I admitted my error and assured them it would not be the case in future. I think the apology surprised them, and then there was silence.
Since we were going back through Kalyanpur, the village youth club there wanted to meet me. I had agreed to it, but Amra Ram did not know about it and was surprised when the Scorpio pulled off the road to a run-down shed shaded by a jaal. We sat there, without any trappings of a meeting. Budh Khan produced a chilled mango shake that tasted absolutely divine. It reminded me of a beer I had enjoyed in Bikaner at the height of the summer heat many years ago. I would have liked some more of that mango juice but did not have the nerve to ask them. The youth club did not have any such inhibitions and asked what had happened about their cricket kit. I had completely forgotten about that promise, and I told them that I assumed it had already been done. When they said it hadn’t, I promised to do it after the elections. Currently, we have to follow the code of conduct, I explained, so I do not want any controversy.
Since we had finished early enough, I thought there would be a chance to catch the Liverpool match against the Blackburn Rovers. But the Balotra BJP wanted me to meet the local municipal councillors who had revolted against the chairperson. I waited for them at Amra Ram’s house, but there was no sign of them for almost an hour. I fretted, as the match would get over. But once they came, I totally forgot about the match, for their complaints were endless. The discussion went on and on, and when it appeared to be losing direction and purpose, I suggested a solution. Since the contest was between the chairperson and the block president, make the two of them sit together and chalk out all activities for the future. This was agreed to instantly, and I left in a better frame of mind. As to the Liverpool match—I would have to turn to YouTube again.
When I got back to Jasol, Rajesh was already there. He is my confidant in this area and has a devoted team in Balotra town. I had asked him to come over because he and Dimpu needed to sit together and make the Balotra plans. He told me about the current satta rates for my election, and they were diametrically opposite to what Hukum Singh, my driver, had told me. According to Rajesh’s satta rates, my chances were poor. I sensed my stress levels rise again, and then I slid into an uneasy sleep.
12 April 2009
The day began in Tilwara on a dry note, literally and metaphorically. There was not much of a gathering when we reached and while we waited for more people to arrive, there was much moaning from those present about the disruption in water supply. The trouble is some people tend to break into the supply line at the point where it passes their dhani, and I think the department must have reached the end of its tether—it had not bothered to repair the line for some days now. Bhavani Singh, the block BJP president, in his usual manner blamed it on the new state government and its lack of interest in the people’s welfare. ‘Look at those cows standing by that dry tank,’ the people at the gathering complained. The cows did indeed look miserable and emaciated, and if that was the case in mid-April what would happen later in May and June, I wondered aloud. I promised them that I would call the authorities
later this evening when I returned home. At Borawas it was an identical complaint, and I guess it was the same supply line as at Tilwara. They are part of the same panchayat anyway.
Tilwara is one of the most important villages that was once part of Jasol thikana, and the annual cattle fair here at one time rivalled the one at Pushkar. Nowadays, attendance at the Tilwara cattle fair varies according to the benevolence of the rains. But its importance has also shrunk because trade with Sindh and Baluchistan came to an end with the sealing of the border with Pakistan. In my childhood I remember hearing about horses and camels being traded here with buyers and sellers from Sindh and beyond, in what is now Pakistan. All that was before the erection of a border fence and the rise of cross-border terrorism.
The next two stops were at Bagundi and Akadli. I was relieved to know that the construction of the hall at Akadli was in progress, for it had been a long-standing demand, and besides, it involved my kul devi. Both Bagundi and Akadli had been settled by Charans, the bards who have composed some of the most stirring Rajasthani verses. And the Charans had been brought there by the founder of my family, because no feudal chief could be seen to be without his own Charans. The Akadli meeting was as warm as it has always been. I did not sense any change here.
The drive to the next stop, Patiyal, was through a route that I had not seen earlier, constructed under the new Pradhan Mantri Gram Sadak Yojana. This road ended close enough to the main one, so it didn’t involve too much off-road driving. Despite having covered thousands of kilometres in the desert, I still look forward to off-road driving, and when the sands are really difficult then I take over the driving from Hukum Singh.
We waited at the Patiyal bus shelter for the people to gather. It was blustery outside and the shelter did provide us precisely that—cover from the swirling sands and the scorching sun. I finally got to meet Bhera Ram Punia, who had been the family chowdhury. I had heard so much about him, but for some reason or the other had never run into him. His proximity to the Congress could have been a factor but not a sufficiently strong one, for social relations here are not influenced by political affiliations, not yet anyway. I apologized to him for my lapse. He remembered my grandparents—especially my grandmother—with great fondness. He said that if they had called this meeting, it would have been much bigger since they would have known whom to call. So much for politicians and party workers, I thought. Sarpanch Prema Ram went on about how indebted they were, because even though Patodi had denied them water, by using the Jasol name they had managed to get it. This must have happened centuries ago, but clearly his DNA was injected with this memory. When leaving, I promised to look up the family property in Patiyal. It would be good to have another resting place rather than always driving long distances to find a clean loo and clean sheets.
Sajiyali, like Patiyal, was heavy with sentiment. But since I have been here more often, it was familiar to me. After lunch, we went for a condolence visit to a dhani on top of the dune, where we indulged in more family reminiscences that I found very touching. When we reached Patodi, there was no sign of a meeting. Ran Singh, a former soldier and now a BJP major-domo, said he had taken care of it, but this village has its own dynamics, so I was not surprised. There are factions within the BJP here, as in any party. And the larger the village, the greater the divisions between factions. This is one of the few panchayats I know that has a sarpanch, Devraj Singh, who has been educated at a public school, Mayo College. And he is a very caring sarpanch, which is the most essential requirement for a well-run panchayat. I remember telling Mani Shankar Aiyar about him, which had pleased the panchayati raj minister no end. As the people gathered, I asked about Devraj, but he was away. Nobody comes for the meetings nowadays unless it is publicly announced over the mike in the village, they said. I understood that and told them not to worry about it and said we would in any case meet again. Would they want to meet with me or with my father, I asked. It was a silly question as I came to realize as soon as the words were out of my mouth. How on earth I can equate myself with my father, I thought. And they gave the obvious answer by asking for a meeting with my father present.
As we left Patodi by a side road, the official videography team crossed us in a battered government jeep. They turned around and joined us as we were holding the meeting at Richoli. This is a silly imposition by the Election Commission and unnecessarily increases the stress and expenditure for the local administration. I ignored it until the cameraman focused his light on my face. It blinded me and I snapped at him, but I felt bad for him moments later as he was only doing what he has been contracted to do. They left us even before we reached Gopdi. Before the meeting began, I lit a jyot at the Mallinath temple and was very pleased by the way it lit up the darkness. It reminded me of my first election, in 1999, when I was asked to light the jyot at Jogi Das ka Ganv. It was very windy then but I had somehow managed to get the flame going. Both instances involved ancestors and their birthplaces.
As it was Sunday, I could get to speak with Hamir, and he sounded happy in his new house at school. He gladdened my heart even more when he requested me to call a number that he gave me, and to tell that person to speak with his son. ‘He is my friend and his father has not called yet,’ Hamir said. I told him the father may not know which number to call. I was very impressed by his concern for his friend and happy about the human values he displayed.
13 April 2009
It was a brilliant sleep from which I awoke—cold and under the stars, on the terrace of our farm in Jasol. But my mood was soon ruined—I left Jasol much later than I should have and was late for the first meeting at Karna. As the calls kept coming in to inquire where I was, I kept apologizing. It was under a very bright sun that the groundsheet had been laid out in Karna. All through the meeting, I had to shade my eyes with my hands.
Luckily, the Bhunka meeting was in the shade of a tree, by the side of a memorial erected for a soldier from the village who had died in the 1971 war. As we came out of the shade and got into our vehicles, the sun felt very strong. I did not check the Accu Weather chart today, but I am sure that it would have indicated it as the hottest day already. The local MLA Kan Singh’s Scorpio turned on to the main road ahead of me, and I made a remark about him using the air conditioning so early in the day. It was a silly thing to say and I felt bad once the idiocy had sunk in—he is, after all, an older person.
From Bhunka onwards, the responsibility for the meetings and programmes seems to have been usurped by Rama Ram, a very active Prajapat of this area, where the Prajapats are settled in large numbers. He came rushing at us, through the dust, when we halted soon after leaving Bhunka, and he kept up that pace throughout the day, his jeep overloaded most of the time, careening this way and that on the corners. He was on supercharge for, after all, this was his belt, and we were among his people.
Most of today’s programmes were in villages that are predominantly Prajapat. Prajapats used to be called Kumbhar earlier. Once largely potters and rug makers, they have now diversified out of their traditional professions to farming and business. For weeks, Rama Ram had been calling and setting up the programmes in this area, the urgency compounded by the imminent departure of Mishri Ram, a sarpanch. Mishri Ram had a long-running feud with the block BJP president regarding a cooperative-society manager. Since both were important and equally close to me, I did not intervene between them, adopting a Darwinian approach to this battle—the fittest would survive. Despite being a prominent sarpanch of the area, Mishri Ram lost the battle, and was now rumoured to be heading out to the Congress. Since the Prajapat vote had been overwhelmingly in my favour last time, I had to ensure that the damage done by Mishri Ram’s departure was somehow minimized. Hence, the freedom to Rama Ram and his team to organize the meetings as they wished.
At about 2. 30 p.m., my stomach turned so violently that I was worried. But, as suddenly as the acid attack had come, it also subsided. Still, I continued to worry for a while as the last thing I needed was to fall sick
again. The heat was particularly oppressive after we finished our meeting at Dhanwa. It began to feel humid as well which, for me, is the destroyer of all senses. It was then that I felt it, a little trickle and the beginnings of a nosebleed. I stopped under a khejdi to wash my face and quickly eat some food. I have had heat strokes earlier so I knew the symptoms. The break and the food did me good, and we continued on our way from there.
The meetings got bigger as the day wore on, and by the time we reached Arniyali, it was a huge gathering with a lot of energy. This is Mishri Ram’s panchayat. The Ai Mata temple has grown considerably in the years that I have been visiting around here. The one at Gala Nadi still has some work going on, and we sat in the outhouse for a packed meeting. The dust being kicked up made me sneeze twice in succession. That gave rise to a little applause for it is considered a good omen. This was news to me. From here, I bade goodbye to Rama Ram and his team, for this was the last of their villages. We headed out to Sindhri where there was no meeting, but I wanted to pay a condolence visit to Sohan Yati, a local businessman and amongst the most prominent in the Jain community. His wife had been diagnosed with cancer and admitted into an Ahmedabad hospital, from where he had called me to ask for additional care for her. But she had not pulled through. We sat in his living room, under an air conditioner that brought some welcome respite from the outside heat, as did the chilled rose sherbet.
Campaign Diary Page 12