There was a call today from the Rawatsar maharaj, the head priest of the temple there. He called after many days, in fact, not since the time he had called me and asked for Harish, the Congress candidate. I had told him who I was and that he had dialled the wrong number. He had hung up sheepishly. It made me wonder if he was playing a double game. Today, he called to ask for more campaign material. The whole day was spent in the Siwana area. There were no major meetings; rather, a checking-up, catching-up type of round. Indrana was as warm as it always is, and Padru as weird as it always is. They continuously complain about the strong-arm tactics of Prem Singh, who had once been in the BJP but is now a key Congress figure in the area. The BJP has not done anything politically to counter him, either. From Padru, it was the fabulous route to Ramaniya. It always takes my breath away, no matter how many times I drive on it. The Siwana hills seem to open up to make way for this road, cutting deep like a gorge. Khandap was a quick stop before I rushed off for the Balotra roadshow.
The Balotra round was impromptu, as they had heard about the Barmer programme and needed to do something as well. They had been ticked off, too, for their inactivity. Though a short-notice affair, it turned out rather well. Both factions of the BJP were there in a show of unity. Unlike in Barmer, the focus in Balotra was on the poorer neighbourhoods. It ended well past last light, and then I rushed to Pachpadra, although there was no programme there.
The only purpose was to meet Tara in her marital home. She had tied a rakhi on my wrist during the last elections and even said a small prayer at her grandfather’s house in Korna. Since then, we had kept in touch, with her sending me a rakhi every year, and me sending her a sari. This was my first visit since her marriage, and her in-laws were present in full strength. She looked very sweet in a sari, a tiny thing with a big pallu pulled over her head. She looked even sweeter, motioning to me with her eyes to check out her husband. I, of course, addressed him in the conventional manner as janwai sahib.
6 May 2009
Today is the day before polling day, and it sure feels like that. We covered 600 kilometres, from the time we left Jasol in the morning till we returned late at night. All day, I was deluged with phone calls—from those wanting more material or money, to the many who simply called to wish me ‘no tension’ over the elections.
The first stop was at the Chohtan campaign office that I had not visited throughout the campaigning, as I just couldn’t make the time for it. And as expected, there were people waiting with their requests. Among them was somebody who called himself a jadugar (magician) who claimed he could conjure up votes. But in order to perform his magic, he added, he needed me to provide him with transport! Then Lakshman Singh, a distant relative, called to say that transport had been given to the wrong person in his village, and as a result 8000 votes were going to be wasted. And then there were those screaming at me about suvidha and saadhan (material and transport) not being delivered, or being pilfered along the way. How on earth can all these calls or visits be dealt with satisfactorily? I pretended to give my full attention but was, in fact, letting everything pass out through the other ear.
The next stop was Qassam Fakir’s dargah, to which I had not yet been. The programme was made in the last few days, sort of a visit for receiving blessings. I had agreed to it after much deliberation, only because going there and back would involve covering a long distance. But once I got there, I was very glad I had done so. The long dirt road leading to the shrine was packed. There is no proper habitation nearby, but the people had brought water and tentage. They even had plenty of jaggery to pass around. There was no mike since I had told them it would be against the rules and that this was a visit to pay homage, not a political meeting.
I was actually surprised by the number of Hindus who had come there. Throughout the period during which this visit was being planned, I thought there definitely seemed a class divide over the whole thing—the big guns were not in attendance and it was only the poorer, unconnected people who came to the dargah. And sure enough, as we sat around, person after person said that this election was about the poor and the ordinary voter getting my ear—and with respect—and not about the Congress or the BJP, both of whom were opposing me in any case. I could only smile at that, but I did feel good about the recognition. That has been the point of the entire exercise since my entering politics—enabling the ordinary voter without any connections to approach me, without having to go through intermediaries.
In the whole crowd, the one person who stood out was a young girl in her school uniform. She must have just come back from school but she looked very tidy even at the end of her school day. In sharp contrast were the schoolboys there, many of whom become scruffy even on the way to school. She sat confidently in the middle of the circle, to my left, the only one of her gender there, which did not faze her at all. For the welcoming ceremony, she even went and got a garland, put it around my neck and then shook my hand firmly. I was totally impressed by her self-assured conduct, her large, confident eyes and her chubby cheeks that I wanted to pinch. I thought for a moment of asking who her father was so that I could tell him to educate her as long as she wanted to study. But then, I decided not to—such words can sound patronizing. I simply put some jaggery into her mouth and patted her head in a fatherly sort of blessing.
The drive to the next stop was long and lonely since nobody was with me. All were occupied in their own polling booths, and I would not have wanted it any other way. I stopped at Rawatsar for a very short visit, and then it was straight to Siwana, for their version of the roadshow. The sun was almost below the horizon when we started it. It just so happened that when Mahender Tiger went by in his jeep, we were in the poorer parts of Siwana. He had recently joined the Congress after contesting the Assembly elections as a Bahujan Samaj Party candidate. Soon after he passed us, the local police came to check whether we were distributing money. I thought it very odd, but then somebody said it must have been due to a complaint by Mahender Tiger. Even in the days when he was my friend, I had never got to ask him how ‘Tiger’ came to be part of his name, when, in fact, he was supposed to be an ahimsa-observing Jain.
From Siwana, it was on to the much-frequented Samdhari route, to do their roadshow. Babu Mali was the master of ceremonies for this one, and he was at his voluble best as we walked through the streets—actually, the main road—stopping at every other shop to remind them about voting the next day. After doing the Samdhari road followed by the Samdhari Station walkabout, it was a hurried dash to Balotra so as to complete their roadshow. By the time I got back to Anandpur it was past midnight but that did not stop the phone calls giving details of all the rumours and allegations. The weirdest was the one about Murad’s being tailed because some senior person from Jaisalmer had called the police to say that he was village-hopping with bags of money. Poor chap, this really was the night of the long knives!
7 May 2009
Today was polling day, and it began on a sour note. The voter slips that we were distributing carried my photo, with instructions to tear along the perforation line before handing them over to the polling staff. Some had not torn off the photos and this gave an opportunity for certain over-zealous polling staff to come down hard on the agents working for us. Half the morning went in clarifying the matter, by which time the sourness had spread fairly deep into the throat.
After casting my vote in Mewanagar, where I did not see the light but heard the beep of the electronic voting machine, I left for the Baytu area. There is really nothing to do on polling day, but candidates and those who operate at that level drive around all day, checking on polling arrangements and pre-empting any expected mischief. I went to Baytu as it was the worst area for me politically, and the maximum trouble was anticipated in this belt. Nothing happened to take note of, except for continuing rumours of attack at this or that place. Complaints from Ramsaria kept coming so I went there, telling the election observer I was on my way there, but when I got there I realized there was nothing
to it, so I called the observer to apologize and to thank him.
During the day, I was surprised to come across the son-in-law of Hema Ram, MLA for Guda Mallani and revenue minister in the state, floating around in the same area. I had received a request to help one of his relatives with some boarding-school admission, and besides, the son-in-law was supposed to be an important BJP person in Kutch where he has business interests. Crossing borders changes loyalties, I thought. But I was disappointed, to say the least.
NDTV channel’s local stringer caught up with me just after the polls closed at five, as they wanted an interview for a later telecast since, according to the rules, no OB van could be with me to do a live one. I sat at a fuel station outside Kawas to give the interview. On the way back to Jasol, I called the Barmer and the Jaisalmer collectors to thank them for all their hard work in conducting a good election. I apologized to the Jaisalmer collector for being short with him in the morning over the matter of the voter slips, because one of the agents had apparently been slapped by an official, which he had no business doing. Data called soon after to ask how I felt, and I replied: ‘I feel good.’
When we reached Anandpur, Hukum Singh looked at the mileage meter and said we had done 34, 000 kilometres since we had begun the election campaign four months ago. It was then that I suddenly felt the fatigue and remembered the last election when I had asked myself why anyone would want to do it again. Back at Jasol there was no possibility of getting a massage but I thought I had earned myself a beer and a cigarillo. Dimpu came in later and I thanked him for looking after the Balotra and the Siwana areas. Till nightfall, there was much speculation about the polling percentages, but the picture would not be clear till the morning hours. I went to bed thinking about today being the thirteenth day of the Indian calendar which is regarded as auspicious and wondering whether my ruling deities would bless me.
8 May 2009
My body clock woke me up at 5 a. m. but, when I realized that the election was over, I went back to sleep. I was feeling lazy now, so I told Chitra to come from Barmer via Jasol so we would go together to Jodhpur. But by the time she reached I was still not ready. I had finally slowed down, after weeks of running on adrenalin. Today was the big festive gathering at the ancestral family temple in Jasol. When we got there, it was swarming with people, and we had to be content with a very crowded darshan.
Leaving Jasol, I put on the air conditioning in the Scorpio. It felt so different to be driving in a cooled vehicle after all these days. We had to stop at Nagana, to pay our respects to the kul devi as well as to meet Kharwa Jijosa, a brother-in-law, who was making his first visit of worship to Nagnechi Devi. Chinkie Jija was with him, and it was her first visit as well. By the time we reached, the sun was high in the sky. We had to walk on a scorching hot floor, but the sheer thrill of being there made it bearable. It was a very satisfying darshan and I felt like a bit of a guide taking the Kharwa couple around. The staff of the temple trust made the visitors feel most welcome. I felt an even deeper sense of belonging.
We left for Jodhpur soon after the customary visit to the temple trust office, and the tea and biscuits. My thoughts were on Mama, and the fact that today was not one of her many fasting days. We stopped to pick up some fresh daal varas, and I pigged on them through the drive to Jodhpur. They were delightfully delicious. I was stuffed, but still had a good appetite for lunch. I flaked out soon after eating lunch and went into my room to take a nap, a proper siesta.
I must have slept only for a short while because I felt very cross when I kept hearing sounds in the room. It was the children, constantly going in and out, scurrying around like mice in an empty kitchen. They were really irritating, and I told them to stay out, which they did. But then soon after that the electric power went off, and with that went my chances of any rest. When I emerged from the room it was teatime, and I helped myself to a huge bowl of ice cream. I was really being a glutton, but the sheer relief of getting the campaigning ordeal over was such a liberating feeling that I didn’t care about what I ate or how much. After this, I decided to have a haircut—I had called the barber home. This is one of the luxuries still available in Jodhpur. And he gave me the customary close crop, which gave me a feeling of lightness. Of course, it came in for much criticism from Chitra and Harshini, but Hamir said it looked cool. That was enough for me.
Bapji and Maharani-sa (the erstwhile maharaja and maharani of Jodhpur) came by in the evening. It is always wonderful to see them. They asked about the campaign and said that the reports coming in seemed favourable. I said it seemed okay from my side, too. I then told them that Chitra and I were planning a break somewhere. We had discussed going somewhere to be alone, and all the options seemed too far away in this mid-May weather. I also said that I had not been to Mount Abu since the age of four or five but had vivid memories of staying at Connaught House (a Jodhpur property in Mount Abu). Maharani-sa enthusiastically supported the idea of our going there for a break. We could only be away till the 15th, so choosing Mount Abu for our break would save on travel time.
9 May 2009
Data made me read the Charles Moore column from the Spectator first thing in the morning. I was still groggy with sleep, but with a deep sense of familiarity I read his comments on the scandal of the British MPs’ expenses. The words and the expressions could easily have been applied to their Indian counterparts, too, and indeed to many who walk the corridors of Parliament House, New Delhi.
Today was supposed to be an easy, relaxing day, but it turned out to be quite the reverse. It was Mama’s birthday by the Gregorian calendar and all her brood were in attendance at the farm in Jodhpur. My plan was to go only as far as Parlu for a wedding feast, for which invitations had been received well in advance. I thought I would easily be back in time for Mama’s cake-cutting ceremony. On my way to Parlu, I met Babaji, the senior-most RSS functionary at Hedgewar Bhavan. He asked me about the elections and after I had given him my assessment, he seemed sceptical. From what I could gather the election seemed to have gone off okay. Even the bureaucracy seemed to think so, and they were the best barometer. But I did not want to argue with Babaji, so I merely said that we had not made any calculations, but this would be an election that would surprise the people.
Initially, at Parlu I felt people were distant, or indifferent at best. But then things slowly warmed up, and I felt more welcome there. After the customary photographs with the groom, I was taken away for lunch. It was then that the phone calls began. An EVM at a polling booth in Bhurtiya had malfunctioned, and the matter would have ended there had none of the parties objected. My election agent called to say that since we were comfortable about the election there was no objection from our side, but the Congress agents had complained. This means that they are obviously nervous, he added. The re-poll was scheduled for tomorrow, and the team members wanted everybody to gather in Bhurtiya for a planning session. I was really in no mood to go but since everybody seemed all charged up, it would have been cruel not to be present at the deliberations. But it would also be cruel to Mama, as I would be the only one missing from her birthday celebrations. Luckily, I had Padam Singh with me, driving Data’s Innova. It was comfortable and a good change from the Scorpio. I rushed to Bhurtiya, feeling sad about dropping everything that was planned.
I reached in the hot noontime and went straight to the shop in the centre of the village. I sat under the thatched roof, in the shade, but fully exposed to the hot, baking air. Jaitmal Singh opened the show with much abuse, as usual. He is a retired schoolmaster and thinks teachers have a licence to abuse and to be abusive. As soon as more team members arrived we moved to another house, which virtually became the tactical headquarters. From there, the whole plan was worked out and phone calls made. I even had to speak to some people in other districts to come and vote. There was a discussion about getting vehicles organized to fetch some of the voters who lived outside Bhurtiya, but I rejected that proposal.
I was pleasantly surprised to find Shafi
driving up there, and he had Hukum Singh with him. It was good to see them, especially since I had granted Hukum Singh leave after months of being on the road. They had been travelling together to check on how the votes had been polled, and Shafi voiced his anxiety about the Muslim vote. He recounted what he had heard as having been said by Amin Khan and Ali Mohammed, among others—that there was no chance of any Muslim vote going to the BJP. There was nothing that could be done about it now, so I decided not to fret over the reports.
Shafi had come in a Scorpio, and it was certainly more practical than taking the Innova around the dunes. I had not driven in a long while so I took the wheel. With a new model CRDe engine, it felt very different from my model. We were going from dhani to dhani as if it were a sarpanch election, but with a re-poll fixed for the next day, we had to do this. At one steep turning on a dune, the Scorpio got stuck in the sand. I felt a rush of adrenalin, and really kicked into the role. Since it was not a 4WD model, getting it out of the sands and on to our designated route was a greater challenge. I really let go, swerving and sliding on the dune and its curves. Shafi was standing at the top end of the dune and calling out: ‘Wah bapu wah!’ His years in Surat had obviously had an impact on his linguistic skills.
Campaign Diary Page 18