Oh God! Is this my candidate!
Delia Maria
Airport Road Mohalla Committee, Pune
Elections come and elections go but we the people go on forever. This is what we middle class citizens have always thought since Indian independence. But these February 2007 municipal elections were different. Armed with the Right to Information Act and the JNNURM clause that local wards must have mohalla committees, we, citizens of the Yerawada decided to join in the election jamboree.
We began with a Know your Corporator questionnaire. What an eye-opener it was! Most people have never even bothered to see who their local corporator was! Some had never voted in all their adult lives! “Politics is a dirty game,” “All corporators are rascals,” “Things will never change” they lamented. “Why vote, it will make no difference,” were some philosophical excuses. “Then why don’t you stand,” we suggested. “Me, in this rotten system, goodness gracious no!”
We printed a leaflet to guide citizens about their voting rights; how to participate better in the elections as well as in local governance. We offered a tip to those disgruntled ones on how to protest on election day if they were not happy with any of the candidates. Distributing ten thousand leaflets through the newspaper man, standing in malls, book-shops and bazaars, and going house-to-house boosted our morale. If the system had not so far given us our due, at least we could have our say before the elections.
Next, we decided to meet our candidates. That was to be the most educative experience that no civics textbook or morning newspaper could give! The candidates came in all sizes, shapes, castes, class, party and education (or lack of education). Most were young, in their twenties and thirties who had never been in political office before, but had tagged on to their political fathers, spouses, uncles and aunts. They all sported white kurta pyjama except the Gandhi topi was missing. What was conspicuous on most heads was a saffron tilak. They looked superior to their compatriots, they were healthier, fairer, better looking and of course had businesses and money to spend.
On Republic day, we took a Citizens Manifesto to each candidate. Unaware of how strong our demands were, each candidate greeted us enthusiastically. After all, if we voted for them, then we must have many others following suit, they thought. One candidate grabbed my feet pleading “give me your vote”. A lady friend standing nearby whispered in my ear, “enjoy the moment for after the elections we will have to touch his feet”!
A young candidate, hardly out of college and nephew of an ex-mayor visited our area one evening, sheepishly asking for votes. “Have you done any social work for this ward before?” we quizzed him. “No”, he replied ” but my uncle has done so much”. “Then why doesn’t your uncle stand,” we asked in wonderment. The ex-mayor uncle immediately bustled the little lad out of the meeting whilst muttering something about having to attend another gathering.
Another young lad apologized to us stating that it was his first time. “I don’t know much about being in the corporation” he said, “but if you elect me, I promise to make you part of my group”. “Why don’t you be part of our mohalla group instead ,” we retorted and left. A post-graduate, English speaking youngster took pains to translate his Marathi leaflet for us, then without much confidence said , “after all it is secret ballot, vote for whoever you find best.” If only he could read what was on our minds.
The old, feudal, landlord families have always fielded their candidates and won time and again, first in the panchayat and then in the corporation. Each election has seen another generation springing into the political arena. The grandfathers now weathered and old stay back and let the younger ones use their modern expertise to canvass differently. But one thing has not changed. Their candidates must still brave the heat and cold, walk on foot from home to home to meet the voters. We were amazed how, such candidates who have never walked in their lives, have padyatras in their wards everyday. Not only will they bend backwards to enter tiny huts and low doorways, but will even humbly greet the poor seated along the pavements. We were impressed and for an instant feel overjoyed at the working of Indian democracy. But we have to constantly remind ourselves that this is but only an election campaign.
We did however, encounter the ugly faces of election. Like one candidate who belonged to a majority party and who hardly goes around the ward to meet his voters knowing very well that his symbol will get him votes and victory. Another who along with his group was already drunk in the early evening. A third who looked at us contemptuously, these middle class who make all the noise but don’t vote. A fourth who has a manifesto offering women money if they will join his literacy classes which he promises to open if in the seat. And the fifth who bragged about honesty and tinshed whilst it is common knowledge that he has secretly bought acres of land in his village with people’s money.
The countdown has begun and we too have the election fever. Our leaflets have run out and so has our energy. Many of the candidates are tired; perspiring from long days of canvassing and long walks through the ward. We are almost tempted to feel sorry for them. With controls on their election expenditure, all they can do now is to mount loudspeakers and banners on rickshaws to do what their mouths are too tired to do. Our afternoon naps are often disturbed with the electioneering music . Mere desh ki dharti�nationalistic music rings in the air, coloured promises on all over party manifestos and candidates leaflets. Symbols of a pressure cooker, elephant, clock, gas stove, gas cylinder, kite, lotuse, hand , � screaming at us, vote for me, vote for me. On voting day we will make a beeline for the voting booth and juggle the symbols over in our heads. Having seen, met and spoken with all the candidates, this time things will be different.
In the 58th year of the Republic, all power to the citizen!