Ah, elections! Do you, in that little line of mine above, detect a tinge of nostalgia? A sort of yearning for that yearly (well, it looks so!) exercise? You certainly do. There's something about the polls, especially the national variety, that peps me up no end. Politics, to me, is otherwise as interesting as dishwater. I would cheerfully sit through Hindustan ki kasam again than be present at 24, Akbar Road while, say, Natwar Singh energetically launders Vajpayee's Kargil-dirty dhoti. But things do begin to get exciting during election. It is not the polling per se that is so arresting. I, and I suspect this holds for most of my brother journalists, like the part that comes after the candidates are decided. After politicians, much in the way our esteemed forefathers went after banana peels or whatever they went after those days, finish their party-hopping and running around for tickets. That's when the victors -- ministers, MPs and MLAs, who till then were too busy pulling each other down in New Delhi to have given a thought to their constituents -- rush back telling all who will care to listen: "The leadership wanted me to contest... and being a loyal partyman I conceded." The losers, the fallen ones in the Great Ticket Rush, too, echo the words: "I am a loyal partyman. I will do anything the leadership tells me..." (Some enthusiasts at times add, "I will even sweep the floor if that's what my leader wants.") Anyway, everyone returns home. Then the comedy begins. It is every bit true, the saying that a politician's skin is as mellow as that of a rhino. Imagine hoodwinking your voters into choosing you over some other equally honest jack. Once chosen, imagine calmly forgetting your poll promises, your constituency, your voters... (Please don't come up with that terrible cliché: "Not everyone is like that!" We are talking of the rule, not the exception.) So you sit pretty in Delhi. You spent many pleasurable hours thumping the desk in Parliament. You even practice, like a certain Union minister from Tamil Nadu did during the trust vote in May, examining the fathomable mysteries of your nostrils. Then, after one year or two or three or four (but rarely five), when the CEC whistles his best tune, you jump to it. You make a mad scramble home. You switch on a smile that would challenge Madhuri Dixit. You walk around namaste-ing. All of a sudden you are sweetness personified. Efficiency's new avtaar. Kindness crowned. Of course, you are shameless. You sing your own praises till you are hoarse -- and then, you order your sidekicks to take up the song. You-- Oh, never mind, I think you get the drift. I don't have much experience as a journalist. But I have had the pleasure of enduring four polls -- two general elections and two assembly. I have panted after candidates in Delhi, chased them all the way from Raipur to Bastar and, more significantly, waded through scores of poll reports. That's nothing remarkable, I agree. What is remarkable is this: Every candidate I have met or read about, all to the man, seemed to entertain nary a doubt about his chances. Indeed, they were all confident that they would win. "I am hundred per cent sure," even the weakest candidate tells you solemnly. "The people want a change. There is no doubt they will choose me..." This time around I hope, probably in vain, that I meet someone honest enough to admit that he may not win after all -- or, failing that, someone who would at least confess, yes, scribe, I do have a tough fight on hand... There's, however, one politician with whom I am moderately impressed. Not many are aware of his existence; in fact, I am pretty sure that most aren't. The gentleman's name is K M Mani. And he, like me, hails from Pala (which is, in itself, reason enough for me!), a small town in Kerala. The founder of Kerala Congress-Mani (Mani Congress, as it is throughout malluland), he has been a legislator for more times than I care to remember. As the state finance minister, he has, if I not mistaken, presented the budget for a record eight times. Now, Mani is as shrewd as any politician, and then some. He understands the necessity of being in his constituency occasionally. He knows all his voters by name -- and his is a pretty big constituency, mind you -- and he knows their family. He will breeze in calling out to the mistress (or master) of the house in words to this effect: "Entha Mariammae, sugam thanne alle? Ninte mon ippam ethram classila? Anchilo, aarilo? Ninte aniyan enthiye? (How are things, Mariamma? Which class is your son in now? Fifth or sixth? Where is your younger brother?) There you have it! Mariamma is happy ("Maanisaar remembers me!"), Mariamma's husband is happy ("Maanisaar remembers my wife!") and Mariamma's brother is happy ("Maanisaar remembers all of us!"). And in goes another three votes into Mani's kitty! Recently I came to know the secret of Mani's memory: just before he enters a house, it seems, the MLA quizzes his sidekicks about the inhabitants. The names, occupation, number of children everything is memorised -- and in goes Mani, hollering for "Mariamma, or Annamma or Auseph" or whoever. Simple trick, but impressive. Effective too by the look of it -- it has kept Mani seat-ed for years on end. Fun, reporting all these, na? Chindu Sreedharan is unstoppable on election duty
HOME | NEWS | ELECTION 99 | BUSINESS | SPORTS | MOVIES | CHAT | INFOTECH | TRAVEL SINGLES | BOOK SHOP | MUSIC SHOP | HOTEL RESERVATIONS | WORLD CUP 99 EDUCATION | PERSONAL HOMEPAGES | FREE EMAIL | FEEDBACK