In one revealing passage, Witsoe recounts asking villagers from an upper-caste Rajput community how they felt about the presence of a local goonda named Shiv, the local proxy of a powerful “mafia don” state politician from the area: “I [Witsoe] asked an older Rajput farmer why villagers tolerated the presence of goondas like Shiv. He pointed to the distance and explained, ‘The Bhumihars [a rival upper caste] reside just over there.’ He said that without people like Shiv, ‘Bhumihar goondas would prey on the village. He [Shiv] protects the village, protects the Rajputs, that’s why we tolerate him.’”97
As Witsoe explains, locals’ reliance on criminally connected politicians is useful for keeping rivals at bay as well as for exercising local dominance. One Rajput villager, commenting on relations with the Chamar [a Dalit caste] population, stated: “We (Rajputs) dominate them. . . . They are also scared of Shiv.”98 Locals Witsoe spoke with viewed Shiv and, by extension, the criminal dada he served as a “necessary protector of Rajput interests, a guard against the territorial intrusion of other castes. People considered the presence of goondas like Shiv to be a necessary evil, ‘our goonda.’”99
Second, the aggregate data confirm that alleged criminality among Bihar’s political class is quite widespread. According to my data from 2010, 27 percent of candidates in the 2010 Bihar election declared pending criminal cases, and 20 percent of candidates faced charges of a serious nature. There are a staggering number of politicians suspected of criminal activity across the state (figure 5.8). Of the 242 (of 243) constituencies for which I have data, a mere 14 percent did not feature a single candidate facing a serious criminal case. On the opposite end of the spectrum, in at least one constituency, there were as many as nine such candidates facing off.
Criminality cuts across parties, including the “reformist” ruling BJP-JD(U) alliance: in 2010, 39 percent of BJP candidates boasted serious pending criminal cases against them compared to 35 percent of JD(U) candidates. Interestingly, these numbers were on par with the supposed brazenly corrupt party-mates of Lalu Prasad’s RJD, of whom 29 percent faced serious pending cases. The numbers were even larger for the candidates who were actually elected; 50 percent of MLAs were named in at least one declared criminal case, and 35 percent of legislators faced cases of a serious nature. Attempted murder charges were the largest category of pending cases, comprising one-quarter of all pending cases against Bihar’s illustrious politicians.
Beyond the aggregate figures, research in Bihar led me to several other politicians with criminal reputations who—though they come from a variety of backgrounds—corroborate Anant Singh’s Mokama narrative. The day before I ended up in Mokama, I visited the town of Fatuha, which sits just 25 kilometers outside of Patna along National Highway 30. There, Ramanand Yadav of Lalu Prasad’s RJD was contesting elections in an area regarded as a Yadav stronghold. Ramanand was a longtime fixture in the Patna-area political scene; supporters and detractors alike testified to his solid grassroots base. Local media reports published before the election described Yadav as a “feared” local leader unafraid to “flex his muscle” and as a man who could “guarantee” security.100
Figure 5.8. Distribution of Bihar state assembly candidates with pending serious criminal cases, 2010. (Author’s calculations based on affidavits submitted to the Election Commission of India by candidates contesting the 2010 state assembly election in Bihar)
The stories I heard in Fatuha, and in follow-up conversations with individuals in Patna who knew Ramanand Yadav, bore an uncanny resemblance to my conversations in Anant Singh’s Mokama. For starters, Yadav’s “strongman” reputation was well known to nearly everyone I spoke with. Indeed, this was a primary motivation for why his party had embraced him. An official from the RJD explained his party’s support of Ramanand by noting how the candidate was able to marshal considerable muscle power from his Patna base. “In five minutes, Ramanand could arrange for 500 young men to show up here,” he boasted. Another local supporter boasted that even RJD chief Lalu Yadav was “afraid of” crossing Ramanand because of his influence.101
As in Mokama, supporters of Ramanand’s decried the notion that he is a serious criminal despite the fact that he stands accused of several criminal violations, including attempted murder.102 Unlike Anant Singh, Yadav was not described as a “don.” Most noticeably, and in contrast to Anant, he did not adopt the aesthetics of one either. While he might not be a “don,” backers readily acknowledged Ramanand was not afraid to use force to get his way. One Yadav resident remarked that whatever illegal activity Ramanand might have allegedly been involved in, it was always in the service of constituents.
To that end, one analyst claimed that Ramanand has earned a reputation as a tireless “fixer” in Patna for many years, a perception supported by interviews conducted in Patna and corroborated by news reports. In an informal capacity, Ramanand is said to have helped poor residents of Patna deal with threats to their safety or difficulties in accessing public benefits. Several residents of Patna and Fatuha recalled that during the days of Lalu’s reign, when Patna was ground zero for criminal activity in Bihar, Ramanand held regular office hours, at which residents came to him for help with their assorted day-to-day problems.
I heard the same story on the other side of the capital, in the heart of Bhojpur district, where Sunil Pandey was seeking his fourth election win in a row on a JD(U) ticket—another supposed “hardened” criminal-turned-politician selected by Nitish Kumar’s party.103 Pandey holds a special place in Bihar’s troubles of the 1990s; he was once a leader of Ranvir Sena, the notorious Bhumihar militia that did battle against the Naxalite rebels and other low-caste senas (armies) during the era of Jungle Raj.104 A local JD(U) party official described Pandey as a “godfather for Bhumihars” because of his prior connections to the militia group. Thanks to his involvement with the Sena, Pandey gained statewide notoriety for his conduct and even did jail time for a kidnapping conviction. According to prosecutors, Pandey orchestrated the kidnapping of a prominent Patna doctor in exchange for a ransom payment. He was convicted and given a life sentence, though he was later acquitted due to a lack of evidence.105
When I asked the local party worker whether Pandey still profited from his reputation, he candidly replied that Pandey’s criminal days were “mostly” over, but that he “has not left bad elements completely behind.” One of those supposed “bad elements” was his own brother, Hulas, himself a reputed gangster who won election to Bihar’s upper house in 2009 and was believed to be his brother’s “main shooter.”106 The friend was clearly not exaggerating about Sunil Pandey’s continuing legal troubles. Just a few years earlier, an inebriated Pandey was caught on camera verbally abusing members of the media who dared to ask why Pandey had failed to pay for a stay at a posh Patna hotel. Pandey, according to one report, threatened to have the reporters killed.107
A few days before voting was to take place, I drove out to Pandey’s constituency of Tirari to meet him. That afternoon, the JD(U)-BJP alliance was hosting a large campaign rally in an open field, and several senior party leaders were due to helicopter in for the event. When we arrived, the crowd was still gathering and an interminable number of low-level party officials were trying in vain to keep the audience’s attention. When Pandey was informed that a researcher had traveled a great distance to see him, he instructed my colleagues and me to join him on the front row of the dais, where we sheepishly appropriated the seats of several visibly annoyed party workers who had to relocate.
After some small talk about the campaign, I asked Pandey directly if he considered himself to be a dabangg leader. Stroking his beard and looking up at the sky, he first rejected the notion but then clarified that he is dabangg for those who oppress the “weaker sections” of society. If being dabangg is like being a Good Samaritan for the oppressed, he continued, then yes, he fits the definition. He then launched into a recitation of a laundry list of development works he claimed to have brought to the area.
Eager to c
hange the subject, I mentioned to Pandey that I had read a newspaper article about him claiming that he had earned a PhD while in jail and had written a dissertation on Mahavir’s philosophy of ahimsa, or nonviolence. His oral defense before his thesis committee supposedly took place under close police scrutiny.108 Pandey smiled, clearly pleased, and nodded. I asked whether he found this ironic given his reputation and the time he spent behind bars. Pandey’s smile immediately morphed into a frown, and he countered that violence is never the first option. But, he said rather cryptically, “Life is limited and people have unlimited requirements. Thus there can be a need for force in some cases.”
I confessed that I didn’t fully understand, but Pandey went on to say the media had unfairly targeted him: he claimed he was not a criminal but someone who resorted to using force only if compelled to do so. This time, I understood—it was the same “defensive criminality” trope I had heard in Mokama and Fatuha. Having heard enough, I thanked Pandey for his time and quickly scurried off the stage—the same local party workers still prattling away at the podium and the audience still trickling in.
One of the most captivating figures in the election was a man who would go unseen by voters during election season. His name was Ritlal Yadav, and he hailed from a semi-urban satellite of the capital called Danapur. In contrast to rural, poor Mokama, Danapur is a suburb of Patna and has a markedly higher literacy rate and a demography that favors the backward-caste Yadavs, as opposed to the upper-caste supporters of Anant Singh.
Ritlal went unseen because he was being held in jail without bail, his requests to campaign denied, even though his name was on the ballot. As a younger man, Yadav was known as a classic small-time thug, a chhota mota goonda in local parlance. As he gained notoriety and took on the role of a classic dada, Ritlal’s ambitions grew and he allegedly turned his eyes toward extortion and contract work associated with the local railways. During Lalu’s reign as chief minister, Ritlal became an active member of the RJD and won election as a mukhia (village headman). Ritlal’s suspected criminal exploits were the stuff of local legend. In 2003, he and his associates allegedly carried out a stunning murder of two small-time contractors who were fast asleep aboard a moving train. Apparently the hit was revenge for their securing a railway tender Ritlal coveted.109
But Ritlal is perhaps best known for his alleged involvement in the 2004 murder of rival BJP leader Satya Narain Sinha. Ritlal is said to have had a long-running feud with Sinha and allegedly carried out his murder as an act of revenge hours after gunmen tied to Sinha shot and killed a fellow RJD leader.110 Sinha’s widow, Asha Devi, went on to win election to her slain husband’s assembly seat in 2005. The 2010 election contest was pitched as a battle between Asha Devi and Ritlal.
Three days before voters of Patna district went to the polls, one of Bihar’s most popular Hindi newspapers published a startling advertisement. The ad featured the faces of three young children above the words Papa, ghar kab ayenge? (Papa, when are you coming home?). The children in the ad were Ritlal’s.111 Several weeks earlier, Ritlal surrendered to the police after absconding from the authorities for nearly seven years. At the time of the election, Yadav was wanted in over twenty criminal cases, some involving murder, extortion, and other serious crimes.112 The ad, attributed to Ritlal’s wife, intended to cast the candidate as a martyr—a revolutionary leader jailed by the oppressive government authorities (indeed, another campaign advertisement explicitly compared Ritlal to other leading revolutionaries from India’s independence movement, such as Mahatma Gandhi, Subhash Chandra Bose, and Sardar Patel).113 The ad, it seemed, was also designed to send a message that Ritlal (despite his arrest) remained a force to be reckoned with. Publicizing his incarceration had the dual aim of evoking sympathy from constituents while simultaneously brandishing his credentials.
For some residents of Danapur whom I spoke with, Ritlal’s alleged criminality was perceived to be an asset because it enhanced his ability to both extract benefits from the state and substitute for the state’s shortcomings in other areas. As a well-known “muscle man,” many voters believed Ritlal was a leader who was willing to take on the local authorities to “get things done,” primarily in service of his ethnic base. Even Ritlal’s critics could understand his appeal among his caste-mates, the Yadavs. One Dalit shopkeeper expressed it like this: “I do not support him. He wants to take us back to the dark days of Lalu. . . . I cannot allow it. But he is a ray of hope for the Yadavs. If you were at the top once [during the Lalu era], would you not want to return there?”
To his supporters, Ritlal’s alleged criminality is cast as part of their ongoing struggle for lower-caste empowerment. Despite being in the majority in Danapur, many Yadav residents expressed uncertainty about their community’s future status. In fact, they argue that Ritlal is a “bold leader who is with the masses” (the way many of his supporters chose to define the term dabangg, when asked to clarify what the term meant to them). According to a group of villagers I spoke to outside the home village of Asha Devi, even the 2004 murder of the BJP party leader Sinha (Asha’s husband) was a “defensive” act allegedly committed by Ritlal to avenge the murder of an RJD party official by Sinha’s associates.114
CURRENCY WITH THE MASSES
The stories of Anant Singh, Ramanand Yadav, Sunil Pandey, and Ritlal Yadav help to clarify the precise ways in which the criminality-credibility link operates in India today. But the framework used to understand the “demand” for politicians with serious criminal records in the electoral marketplace also gains strength from the extant ethnographic literature on criminality in Indian politics.115 In fact, a number of scholars in recent years have found that there are legitimate reasons voters often willingly endorse candidates tied to criminal activity. These studies have considerable geographic range.
For instance, Ward Berenschot has documented the extensive nexus between politicians and goondas in the prosperous and industrialized western state of Gujarat. Even in this economically successful state, the voters Berenschot studied find favor in a candidate’s personal (or proximate) association with criminality due to his or her ability to use (or threaten) extralegal measures to “get things done.” According to Berenschot, a politician’s willingness to break the law is useful from a voter’s perspective because it enhances his or her ability to intervene successfully in the administration and implementation of policy.116
Thus a reputation as a matabhare (literally, “heavy-headed”) person is considered to be an asset in solving local problems, arbitrating disputes, and extracting benefits and services from the state apparatus. As he writes, “Although goondas are often referred to as ‘anti-social elements,’ the people of the area where they live often consider them to be very social: they help solve basic problems, offer opportunities to earn money, and arrange improvements of basic facilities.”117
Echoes of this logic can also be found in research undertaken by Lucia Michelutti on Uttar Pradesh, where members of the Yadav caste have elected many of their fellow caste-mates considered to be goondas to powerful positions in local, state, and national politics. Yadav voters unabashedly refer to many of their elected politicians as goondas, but as Michelutti explains, it does not imply any moral judgment. In fact, she writes that “‘force’ is seen as a legitimate way of getting ‘respect’ and an integral part of the Yadav public image, and most local Yadavs think it is precisely through politics and ‘goondaism’ that they obtained dignity, power and importantly wealth.”118 Yadav voters support goondas because they believe such candidates have the credibility (and the ability) to guarantee the social status of, and direct benefits to, their fellow Yadavs.119
The ability to act as an effective fixer, essentially delivering constituency service, does have a coercive element; there is no reason to gloss over this fact. In fact, politicians themselves have an incentive to make this attribute widely known. This point is well illustrated by Thomas Blom Hansen’s research on the Shiv Sena.120 Hansen shows that the illegal a
ctivities that party politicians engage in can best be thought of as part of a spectacle or performance: it is how party members develop reputations for ruthlessness and as protectors of the common man.121 He argues that the Shiv Sena has no firm ideology or policy platform but only the capacity to generate “moods”; in his words, party men practice the “politics of presence.”122
Perception is almost as important as reality. What matters most is that voters believe Shiv Sena politicians are willing and able to use violence to assert the rights of the common man vis-à-vis the state or other potential threats. As political scientist Steven Wilkinson has argued about ethnic riots, riot participation (like criminality) is a cost-effective means of attracting support from voters because it is cheap in terms of the “resources expended compared to the number of voters ‘contacted.’”123 Thus, once a reputation for criminality is developed it can be self-sustaining. The criminality perpetrated by thuggish players in politics is instrumental rather than a sign of “pathologically deviant behavior.”124
Parties are fully aware of this dynamic and stand ready to pounce where and when the opportunity strikes. One MP affiliated with the BJP explained the process to me in simple terms: “Our party does informal surveys of every constituency in which elections are to be held. Where voters can be mobilized on identity grounds, there can be a payoff to fielding a candidate, who may be a criminal, but also a local ‘folk hero’ to his community.”125 Another top official from a national party summed up the logic pithily: “Parties support criminals because they have ‘currency’ with the masses.” This “currency” is both literal as well as figurative in terms of the candidates’ ability to mobilize popular, caste-based support.126
When Crime Pays Page 24
