Trials of a trail-blazer
By Baljit Singh

YOU’VE read the poll specials, heard the ‘experts’ on television and now wait with an I told you so smile for the results — confirmation that the media pundits are wrong — again. Not that anyone else remembers. For public memory is short, elections a recurrent blip on the horizon and yesterday’s headlines fold away with the newspapers or the flick of remote, life moves on. Still, if you’ve ever wondered about the fount of wisdom the experts drink from....

Election stories are generated by a tribe described by a suitably opaque bit of bureaucratese as correspondents. Propah English-speaking Indians like you and I who, although they live on the right side of town, will wade out into the great Indian outback to bring you the authentic Indian experience. And often all of 12 hours in which to get in, ferret out the truth from India’s "toiling masses" and correspond it out over the ubiquitous phone network.

No mean chore, requiring a strategy as complex as any Operation Vijay. Specially when newspaper managements, with an eye on economy, decide to play Congress to our heroes’ Kargil martyr.

But when the going gets tough there is no one tougher than our campaign trail Warrior, who has by now honed his strategy to fine art. So, no matter that he knows nothing of the area and even lost pen and paper in the mad rush into mofussil town, the heart of the electoral battle. The campaign office of the incumbent MP, recognisable from a long way away by the sound of loudspeakers even at this early hour, will be only too happy to provide sustenance.

It’s only incidental that, as one would expect of a generous MP area allowance winner, they also serve the best tea and sweets in town. (Now is that the sweet smell of victory he discerns.) And while Warrior nibbles away contentedly party workers feed him vital details. Dry statistics without which a report is a non-starter — the voter population and cast profile of the constituency. To make these more palatable the history of the candidate is thrown in, and that of the castes that will be supporting him because of the glorious history sheet.

A smile of disbelief on our young guests face at that last improbable suggestion. "Its TINA factor sahib, no alternative to Neta ji, the Muslims and Dalits have tried..." Well that part at least squares with the picture Warrior has in mind. In fact he already has enough juice for a report. A point at which a lesser reporter might well call it a day and head for Bhaji’s Vaishno Bar, which he spotted on his way in. But for Warrior the trail has only just begun.

So, fed and feted, its time to get a second opinion. Venture out if not venture far. For help is usually available across the street, where the opposition party’s office is located. Opposition leader, as one would expect of a politician torn from his raison de vivre, power, is the underdog, dogged look and all. But desperate to prove otherwise. So the moment he sees Warrior approaching he lays out red carpet, like him a little frayed at the edges, but considering mofussil town, a luxury.

Warrior, although he has seen better across the street, is too polite to refuse the hospitality. He does, however, turn down the latter’s offer of accompanying him on his campaign trail. No mean feat this seeing the ramshackle Ambassador with matching driver the office has sent him out to action stations in. But accompanying a candidate, where all you see is venerable leader talking down to adulatory public can tend to warp perspective, and Warrior is too much of a veteran to walk into this trap. He has little qualms, however, about riding out a little way, at least up to Bhaji’s Vaishno Bar. On the way he can also get a feel of the situation and the opposition camp’s story from the horse’s mouth.

Now for the third front, the regional candidate. ‘Who him, Sahib’ opposition leader say’s in horror." You don’t want nothing with him. The ugly side of politics.’ He gives Warrior the low down on the "criminal" and stops to points triumphantly to a single, forlorn poster blowing in the breeze, "See his moustache. Goonda element. Gangster act."

Mafia angle. That’s hot. So despite the dissuasion Warrior decides to go looking for the local Veerapan. He’s soon going to wish he hadn’t. For like his more famous counterpart ‘third front’ is elusive. Getting to him involves walking through real fields, real dust, real slush. And at the end of it real disappointment.

Third front doesn’t know how to treat a host. For he offers, believe it or not, real water, and talk. And what talk, problems of the irrigation ditch which should have been a drainage channel, of doctors who draw pay but don’t come, schools, fertiliser... A torrent of unimportant detail — as if this were a panchayat poll rather than the millennium vote of the world’s largest democracy.

But if Warrior is bored he is patient. Its only when he realises that the clock is running that he walks out on criminally time-consuming idealist. He knows he ought to meet some of the independents, or at least the ruling party rebel candidate. But the clock dictates otherwise.

Warrior has the pros, and the cons. Now for the real item, the ‘toiling masses’ voter. He spots one on the trail ahead, a load of hay on his head rural-like. Increasing his pace to catch up, he accosts the stranger.

"Who are you going to vote for?"

The man, the load still on his head, regards the well-dressed babu warily. Babu’s mean trouble, and though this one looks well-intentioned he’s learnt from long experience to trust his instinct.

Pata nahin Babuji, he says and tries to move on. Not so fast. Warrior blocks his path. Forced to confront reality, the man smiles in awkward apology, the load still on his head. But taking it off would mean getting help to foist it on again, and he can’t see any coming. ‘Arre bhai kisko vote doge’ Warrior says impatiently. ‘Congress ko yah BJP ko?’ he adds helpfully.

The man looks at him warily. Underneath the all-effacing city veneer Babuji looks like a good Hindu gentleman. He spots a glimpse of sacred thread. ‘Kamal par babuji’ he says relieved, as he makes to move on.

‘Kaun jaat ho,’ Warrior yells after him in afterthought.

Turning to see that there is no sign of hot pursuit the man yells back more confidently, Julahe hain Babu ji, Mussalman.

Intrigued Warrior senses that he ought to probe deeper. But the man is walking fast and by now Warrior’s spotted another group approaching — a real godsend, women. He heads towards them. The women step of the path to let him pass.

He confidently walks up to them instead and, after some impressive garble about his job, pops the question. The women cover their faces, and nod their head in united negation. He repeats his question more slowly, sensing they may not have understood his city accent. The women, the youngest peeping past the dhoti veil in curiosity, nod again but say nothing.

‘BJP ya Congress: Warrior prompts, as they wait nervously.

At that moment one of them remembers someone talking of the hand symbol. ‘Haath pe’ she yells, and the group moves on. By now Warrior is getting hot, under the collar from the reticent "toiling masses", and everywhere else from the mid-day sun. Time to retire for a siesta to Bhaji’s Vaishno Bar, where sulking driver waits.

Here, in a reassuringly familiar setting and with the Punjabi dhaba owner and his local help providing invaluable sound bites, he can begin to unravel the enigmatic rural mind. Unburden his intrigue in your lap, in your language. For in a sense he is you, stranger in an alien landscape that only intrudes on your mind because of the man in the suit on television sounding off about the great rural vote.

No surprise you find yourself nodding when he says elections must be only every five years, only graduate candidates, two parties, no subsidies, taxes on agriculture... If only the toiling masses would understand and not throw up another ‘confused’ verdict. Still, whenever you need reassurance amidst the ‘confusion’, you know you can bank on campaign trail Warrior. Now that you know his secret.