Bastard!
I flipped my laptop shut and walked out to the garden to feed my bhainscafe to the sunflowers. When I turned around after pouring out the contents of my cup, I beheld a big golden Behind sitting on the grass. The head belonging to the Behind had entirely vanished, as it was stuck between its own back legs, licking itself energetically.
'Ponky,' I said firmly, and the head emerged, grinning enquiringly, fat pink tongue lolling. 'This is positively unhealthy! You and I are going for a long walk, dude.'
He leapt up immediately, and the Mark of Ponky was soon imprinted across my pyjama top. Throwing on a thin shawl, I found his leash, a long, thick, leather patta, and we set off down the road.
It was just a little misty, and the peepul trees above us were busy with chattering sparrows. The few shops behind the trees were shuttered and still. Ponky, fat body quivering with the excitement of a million tantalizing scents, leapt ahead, dragging me past the central Begumbagh chowk, the polo ground, several stinking rubbish dumps, the ghanta ghar and the Bittoragarh High School gate. He was headed for the Company Bagh, and obviously had a much longer walk in mind than I'd intended.
I stumbled along behind him, panting a little, starting to feel a bit warm in my pyjamas and shawl. Then I realized somebody was jogging along beside me. I turned, still trying to keep up with Ponky, and beheld a familiar face.
A dark, lanky body, streaked corkscrew curls, demented looking eyes and round John Lennon glasses.
I wrinkled up my forehead. 'Aren't you...' I began.
He grinned. 'Nauzer Nulwallah from MTV,' he replied, beaming happily, and held out his hand.
'Hi,' I said, 'uh... look, if you want to talk to me, you'll have to keep walking. There's no way I can stop this dog.'
'Wokay,' he said obligingly. He ran ahead, turned around and started running backwards, facing me. 'Actually, I wanted to ask if you'd be willing to be featured on our new show.' He threw up his arms and wiggled his fingers dramatically. 'MTV Democrazeeee!'
'Demo-crazy?' I panted.
'Yeah,' he said, glasses flashing in the sunlight. 'Basically, our viewers are kinda excited about the election here -- you're the youngest Praggu candidate in India, and Khan is the youngest from the IJP. Did you know that?'
'No,' I admitted. 'Really?'
'Yeah.' He took a deep breath and rattled off: 'The objective of the show is to raise young people's interest in our democratic system, arouse a passion for this particular form of service to the nation, and help the young, first-time voter make an informed choice while exercising his or her ballot, sponsored by Tata Tea, Jaago Re, Jaago Re, Jaaago Reyyyy! There's an episode tonight, you can watch. Phew!' He stopped running abruptly. 'Your dog wants to take a crap, thank god!'
I stopped too.
'I'll have to ask my... er... campaign managers,' I replied evasively. I'd seen Nulwallah in action on MTV, and I wasn't sure I wouldn't end up looking like an idiot if he interviewed me.
His eyes gleamed. 'Oh?' he said. 'Well, Khan said yes immediately. He didn't have to ask anyone. Don't you take your own decisions around here?'
Wow, this guy was seriously cocky.
'Well, no offence,' I said snidely, 'but unlike Zain Altaf Khan, I'm working with people whose opinions are actually worth asking for.'
'So your party machinery is tying you down,' he riposted.
I was starting to get a little annoyed. The fact that we were now being tailed by a group of giggling little Bittora kids, all pointing at him and going Oye dekho, Nauzer! Hello, Nauzer! didn't help either.
'Is this a sample of your interviewing technique?' I asked him. 'What do you want to be when you grow up? Karan Thapar?'
'Not exactly,' he countered, looking irritatingly pompous. 'But as all the so-called "intellectual" news channels have sunk to cheap sensationalistic reportage, we frivolous MTV types have to give the viewers the serious, in-depth coverage they crave.' He grinned suddenly. 'And what do you want to be when you grow up? Prime minister?'
'Sure,' I replied coolly. 'Why not?'
'What about Z-A-K?' he asked meaningfully. 'Where d'you think he'll end up?'
But Ponky was done. He bounded away towards the Company Bagh and I huffed after him.
'He can be... my... umbrella-carrying spot boy!' I threw over my shoulder. It was a slightly snide remark, I'll admit, but the you're-in-love-with-him conversation with Ma still rankled.
'You mean he's gonna shade you completely?' Nauzer Nulwallah grinned as he reappeared smoothly at my elbow and continued running backwards, facing me.
I stopped and gave him a really nasty look.
'Look,' I told him. 'Maybe Altaf Khan is desperate for publicity, so he's coming on your funny little show. I'm not, so I won't.'
'Hey, no worries,' he said easily. 'Free will and all that, you know! But promise me you'll watch an episode -- you might change your mind. And if it helps, we have a common friend, Gaiman Tagore Rumi.'
Hah. The selfish shopper. It so didn't help.
'It doesn't,' I said as I started to run again.
Anyway, so I know a little bit about the world you come from,' he continued, running to keep up with me. 'Don't you find all this a bit disorienting? Bittora, Pavit Pradesh? Bittora means Heap Big Pile of Cowdung, by the way, did you know?'
Damn. I'd been hoping to keep that a deep dark secret.
'Bittora is my hometown,' I retorted sharply. 'So it isn't the least bit disorienting.'
'And what about the strange animal that is the,' he threw his arms out theatrically, 'Grand Old Party?'
I stuck out my chin and said, 'Look, of course the party has its flaws. But it's the best we've got. I mean, can you show me one alternative to the Pragati Party in this country which actually works
He said, a little dubiously, 'Well, there's the new and improved IJP...'
'Oh, please!' I snapped. 'Go back to Mumbai and make a reality show about guys and girls riding through India on motorbikes, will you?'
'But don't you find your party's system of dynastic politics rather regressive?'
'I don't know about regressive?,' I shot back. 'I'm not the one running backwards.'
'Ah,' he said, 'but you're the one chained to an ungainly, overweight, incontinent animal.'
***
Over the next few days, our little team quickly fell into a routine. We left Saket Bhavan early, an hour after daybreak, tailed by the ubiquitous black EC Maruti Gypsy, and addressed ten to seventeen public meetings a day, of fifty to five hundred people each.
For the first week we concentrated on Jummabagh, Chamapapul and Begumbagh, which were geographically close. Amma had decided we would hit the rural areas a little later, after Zain - and sixteen other candidates from various parties -had finished campaigning there.
It was rigorous work. I developed a practically permanent line around my midriff, where the petticoat naada chafed constantly. My cheeks ached because of the non-stop smiling. My voice was beyond hoarse, my eyes felt gritty, and I was slowly working up quite a tan in spite of all the Banana Boat (SPF 120) that Amma kept slathering on me.
And that was just the physical discomfort.
My moral dilemma, silenced during the day by the part seductive, part threatening but everybody else does it argument, returned to haunt me late at night. On the one hand, I was worried sick about all the money we were spending, where it was coming from, and what I might be asked to do when people started calling in their favours. On the other, I was fretting about all the money Zain was spending and wondering if it was way more than what we were handing out.
In this context, Gudia aunty had totally earned my respect. Even though I was pretty sure she was helping herself to my Moroccan Rose Body Shop perfume every morning, and rather liberally at that, I had to admit she was a rather savvy campaign manager. Wise to the fact that party workers made major money when the candidate held elaborate meetings, marking up prices shamelessly to demand as much as five thousand rupees for firecrackers,
five thousand rupees for garlands, ten thousand rupees for the stage, five thousand rupees for tea and refreshments, two thousand rupees for loudspeakers, all in all adding up to about twenty-seven thousand rupees per meeting, she'd decreed bossily that Amma and I would be keeping it simple.
'Shame on you for holding such elaborate meetings when the nation is facing such a severe summer!' she castigated the workers in her piercing voice. 'Top Brass has said that these are times of austerity! Have you forgotten Gandhiji and Shashtriji?'
Invoking these highly convenient icons of simple living, she ordained that Amma and I would conduct our twenty-odd daily public meetings from the Sumo itself -- sticking our head and shoulders out of the skyroof. Tubelights had been rigged to the Sumo roof to light up our faces, and loudspeakers were attached to the front and back of the vehicle. Instead of strings of firecrackers to herald our arrival, we would use traditional tribal drummers. So we'd managed to get the costs down a bit, but Our Pappu confided to me that the workers were muttering that Amma's election agent was a stingy skinflint who was destroying Amma's goodwill in the area.
Amma remained unfazed by this. 'Thoj boyj are never happy,' she said dismissively. 'We cannot give them any more money -we need it for Mr Urvasi's surveys.'
She'd had a change of heart regarding Mr Urvashi. The man-with-the-name-of-a-woman had been assigned the job of sending us a list of 'issues' for every area before we visited it, so that the speeches we subsequently made were sharply pinpointed and locally relevant. I pointed out that he was probably peddling the same list to all seventeen candidates and making a killing as he did so, but she told me not to be Nave.
'Rocket, Pappu and the rest don't have the pulse of the grassroots now that they are MLA,' she said. 'Whole day jooming about in jeeps, too high and mighty to talk to the common people! And anyway, they only give us their version of things. We need The People's version. The unbiased version. It ij a mistake to become cut off from The People, Sarojini. Besides, everybody should make a little money during elecsuns. You think Urvasi has no children?'
Every night, after dinner, we would assemble in Bauji's petal room. The crack team would show up one by one, slip off their shoes and sit cross-legged on a violently colourful cotton thread dhurrie. Joline Bai would set out huge steel-and-black thermoses filled with hot tea and bowls of rock-hard shakkar padas. And then Amma would sit and add up the votes obsessively, again and again and again.
This evening, Our Pappu arrived early, all red-cheeked and beaming. He dived reverentially at Amma's feet, then clutched my hand, bowed his head and murmured hoarsely, 'Anything for you, didi, anything for you! Whatever you wish! Just ask and see! Anything you desire! My mind and body are at your service! Remember, I will do anything to satisfy you!' With that, he plonked himself on the floor, looked around and announced impressively, 'Jiji! You will get a solid lead from Jummabagh! I will get you fifty thousand votes! Pukka promise!'
Amma snorted. Her voice, never very strong, had been the first to go with all the speeches she had been making. She sucked ferociously on a Vicks ki goli to clear the khich-khich and said nothing.
'Poorey pachaas hazaar,' Our Pappu repeated loudly, thinking she hadn't heard.
'We are not sooting Solay here,' Amma snapped at him. 'How can one person claim to deliver fifty thousand votes? Can you read those people's minds? Foolis!'
Our Pappu tugged at his ear lobes in mock contrition, but the moment she turned her back he waggled five fingers at me and grinned reassuringly.
Amma started to do the math again. There was a total of eleven lakh people on the Bittora rolls. The turnout in Bittora was traditionally around sixty per cent. Which meant that about six-and-a-half lakh people would actually show up to vote. Out of which we needed to get about three-and-a-half to four lakhs to win.
'If we get fifty thousand from Jummabagh and forty thousand from Champapul,' she muttered hoarsely, wrapping her pallu a little tighter around her thin shoulders, 'and chalo, even just ten thousand from Begumbagh. Then we will have one lakh. And in the villages, we will get lead from Sujanpur -- we always get lead from Sujanpur -- and Doodhiya... mila-ke-ho-gaye two lakhs... and if we can get fifty thousand from Tanki Bazaar we will have two lakh fifty. Purana Bittora toh we can forget about. Somehow, we'll have to get more numbers from the villages only. Uff... it is impossible without Begumbagh... that Dwivedi is spoiling everything, we need to settle him...'
Our Pappu instantly piped up, 'Jiji, from Jummabagh, poorey pachaas hazaar! Guaranteed!'
She glared at him and he cowered, grinning, and slurped his tea loudly.
Then the next bunch of people walked in. Depending on the kind of energy they brought into the room, we would bloom or wilt. Sometimes Munni would march in, beaming, eyes shining brightly above the dupatta she wore swathed round her neck, bringing news of our strong following in Champapul. And sometimes she would drift in, shaking her head dourly, even her ponytail looking limp, saying ki hawa badal gayee hai, the wind had changed, workers from the other side had made everyone swear on the Holy Quran to vote for Zain.
Today, she was beaming. 'Sixty-five thousand from Champapul, jiji!' she declared, as she pumped the top of the chai thermos vigorously. 'Full sixty-five! This is my vaada to you!' she added grandly.
Amma bit into her Vicks ki goli with an ominous crunching sound. 'Kyun,' she grunted, 'are people planning to break the vow they took on the Quran?'
Munni shook her head. 'No, no, jiji,' she said, 'kya hai ki, those fellows were trying IJP tricks -- swearing on holy books, only the IJP does that -- but we found a sura saying that swearing on the Quran is haraam, a mortal sin, so now the people are going to atone for it by voting for Jinni didi.'
'Wow, are these people that god-fearing?' I asked, thinking back to the feisty ladies I'd met in Champapul.
Amma snorted. 'Of course not! They know this is the only time they have us by the throat. They will vote exactly the way they want to vote - no matter how many books we make them swear on, or what their maulvis say.'
Rocket Singh walked in just then. He was the one responsible for the vital FUCT (Forest of Unemployed Christian Tribals) area of Doodhiya and the THID (Thirsty, Hindu, Illiterate Dalits) areas of Durguja and Sujanpur. The people of Durguja, especially, were notoriously unpredictable. They had once made national headlines when a media poll revealed that, unlike the rest of rural India, the good people of Durguja would rather have a bathroom than a television in their homes. What could you possibly promise to people like that?
Rocket Singh looked gloomy. He sighed, stirred his tea and said 'Jiji Altaf Khan took water tankers through Durguja today. Fifty of them. He even organized rain dances.'
Amma was popping another Vicks ki goli from a blister pack, but she looked up sharply at this. 'What happened to the wells we had sanctioned for the junglee people in Durguja on Bauji's birthday last year?'
'Amma, don't say junglee. Say tribals.' I remonstrated, appalled.
Rocket Singh looked a little shifty. 'Haan, those wells... they got made, jiji.'
Amma's narrowed her eyes. 'And were the wells dug inside the junglee colonies, Rocket?'
Looking even more uncomfortable, he muttered, 'Actually, jiji, the thing is ki the engineers, when they came to bore the wells, they said that the water table was too low inside the tribal colonies. So they recommended that the wells be dug in the village common -- where the water table is much higher. And Dwivediji agreed.'
'Arrey wah,' said Amma, her voice dangerously dry. 'So now even the water table is discriminating against the junglees?'
'Yes, jiji,' said Rocket Singh sullenly.
'We sanctioned seven wells,' said Amma. 'Not even one waj built within the junglee colony compounds? Water table waj too low in all seven colonies?'
He answered, his voice very low, 'Yes, jiji.'
'So now, of course, the high-castes are not letting the junglees into the village common to uje the wells that were made for the junglees' benefit only?'
>
Rocket Singh gave an uncertain laugh. 'No no, nothing like that!' he said, trying to sound convincing. 'Aisa kuch nahin hai, jiji! All are using!'
Amma said, in a dangerous voice, 'We will see. It is high time we covered the rural areas. When can Sarojini go?'
Rocket Singh said, 'Whenever you want, jiji. Shortcut has arranged a bungalow, so no problem.'
Amma looked up with a frown. 'Why not at Dugguji's?' she asked.
'Who's Doggieji?' I asked curiously.
'Dugguji Sisodia,' said Gudia aunty. 'He's the big zamindar. Why will Jinni not stay there, Rocket?'
'Actually,' Rocket Singh looked around shiftily, 'Dugguji's son Bunty bhai is supporting Altaf Khan. So Altaf Khan is staying there. But the bungalow is good, jiji, it is having electricity and everything.'
Gudia aunty looked completely crushed at this news. 'Bunty bhai indeed!' she said, with a scornful laugh. 'He's just a sycophantic sidekick of that Altaf Khan.'
Amma looked outraged. 'That snakling Bunty,' she said bitterly. 'We went for his sixth-day ceremony... he did susu in aawar lap. And now he has no place for us in his houj...'
Then everybody started talking about the latest rumour that the IJP had started in the villages of Doodhiya. That all the electronic voting machines for this Lok Sabha election had a little camera built into them, which took a photo of you when you voted. This way, they could tell who you voted for, and if it wasn't for the party you'd promised to vote for, the party workers of that party would come back to get you and there would be hell to pay.
'Wow,' I said, impressed, 'they really believe India is that technologically advanced?'
Munni nodded solemnly. 'Yes, didi. They have been told ki machine mein chip hai. The chip will click a photo which will reveal who you voted for and that photo will go straight to Bittora Fort, and then the nawabzada will come and deal with each and every one of the people who'd promised to vote IJP and then didn't.'
Battle for Bittora Page 12
