At the Hustings

In a country where elections can be won through sheer money and muscle power, it is indeed sad that the electorate can be easily brainwashed into accepting bribes of all tangible and intangible hues to keep them in power. Power and pelf have replaced performance and planning as quintessential tools to winning the popular vote, but more importantly this is a lamentation of the loss of integrity and rectitude in our society.

It was the onset of yet another spring

But this year was different

The air had a distinct sting

A reminder to change and reorient

Yes, here came again the quinquennial event

The state assembly elections

Democracy’s test of conscience if it is to be meant

Where the citizenry had one lone shot at course corrections.

 

The sleepy little hamlets that lay at the foothills

Of the magnificent Western Ghats

Ushered in the thrills

Of the new potential upstart

A youngster, an IAS and teacher by heart

Who came up in life by virtue of toil

Was sincere, honest, intelligent and smart

And importantly was a son of the soil

 

Tired of yet another lustrum

And yet another disastrous tenure

These little hamlets, presenting a tiny simulacrum

Of state-wide consensus could no longer endure

And pinned their hopes on this amateur

To thwart the incumbent

MLA, which seemed to be the only available cure

In short, for change the people were hell-bent

 

Day by day the newcomer grew in strength

He made all the right noises

He toured his constituency across its length

And breadth, pressed flesh and listened to voices

Offered solutions and waxed eloquent on the importance of choices

While the veteran incumbent continued to lag

On the trail, short by several paces

But deep inside he knew the thing was in the bag

 

Three weeks prior to D-Day

His claque who had gone to take stock

Said that it appeared he no longer held sway

With the masses, the newcomer was the talk

Of the towns and villages, cementing his place like a rock

Alarmed, the MLA decided enough of watching brief

And legged it for the constituency HQ with his flock

He could no longer trust his own belief

 

The sights and images of his whistle-stop tour

Rankled him and caused much discomfiture

It was apparent that misgovernance would no longer inure

His folks to unwavering fealty, the realization sunk, he wasn’t a permanent fixture

On the other hand, they were more receptive to the amateur’s overture

Whose presence was made felt in the imagery

He seemed like a formidable rival, who had grown in stature

And was making it a contest through sheer drudgery

 

The MLA had seen enough

He decided to get down to brass tacks

The route that lay ahead was tough

And he could no longer afford to be lax

He conjured up a grand campaign putting to use all the kickbacks,

Laundered black money and extorted excesses      

Plus a manifesto laden with roorbacks

Misquoted numbers and made up successes

 

The newcomer however was not to be daunted

He had nothing to lose

He campaigned the right way, neither much vaunted

Nor low-key, instead focusing on putting across his views -

Expose corruption and the party’s abject failures to address issues

And drive home the game-plan on how he would address the same

For he knew the only way to cook the MLA’s goose

Was to put his own skin into the game.

 

As a first step, he laid out a clear framework

For a transparent, corruption-free and well-oiled administration

And announced a slew of precise targeted measures

The first of which was immediate liquor prohibition

“Do you want another tenure of disastrous years”,

He effectively exhorted – “And then subject yourself to another regrettable post-mortem

Or give me a chance, a chance to someone who is ‘supposedly’ wet behind the ears

But can completely overhaul the system”?

 

Over the course of the next fortnight

The rival camps hit feverish heights

The MLA flexed his muscle with all his might

His sycophant underlings engaged the amateur to petty fights,

Concocted calumnious stories, and painted him as a philanderer

Bush telegraphed doctored sleazy sound bites

And roped in partisan media houses to trigger a campaign of slander

In attempts to ensnare him under unmerciful spotlights

 

Not one to be easily browbeaten

The newcomer upped the magnitude

Of his campaign and tried to sweeten

All the ad-hominem that was spewed

He viewed it as a manifestation of his opposition’s disquietude

And never once reacted resorted to any under-the-belt tactic

A testament to his remarkable rectitude

Win or not, he wasn’t going to let it end anti-climactic

 

The MLA had several tricks up his sleeve

He whipped up the caste rhetoric in generous measure

Of his unfulfilled promises, he begged for a reprieve

Instead pointed out to paltry successes and the pressure

At his level which gave him no pleasure

But said he would always be the right man for the job

Self-aggrandizing himself as his people’s real treasure

Whereas the newcomer would merely be a temporary heartthrob

 

However, to the people, this time

‘Twice bitten thrice shy’ seemed to be theme

His manifesto didn’t generate much interest

Concessions for women, Mid-day meal scheme

For school children, Subsidies for farmers, all rang hollow

And so did a plethora of other legacy wares hawked at the hustings

He was clearly dispossessed of his halo

And the final nail had been hammered on his people’s trusting.

 

The last few days ended in a flourish

The two parties sparred for front page reportage

Either one hoping to get the other to perish

Scoring last minute brownie points and political mileage

But the opinion polls were skewed to the newcomer’s advantage

Despite his meagre wherewithal and bankrolling

As it boiled down to the final showpiece of the grand stage -

The sacred count on the day of polling

 

Hours before the dawn of voting day

In the wee hours when darkness lurks

The sleeping dogs that lay

Got to the night’s work

A well-organized network

Loaded with the necessary ammunition

Having done the arduous spade work

For the agenda, embarked on its execution

 

Between half past three and half past four

The citizenry were woken abrupt

By an anonymous packet flung at their door

Causing a thud calculated to interrupt

And arouse its sleeping inmates and disrupt

The mindset they had long begotten

The package also bore a paper slip designed to corrupt

The best among the unblemished and the unrotten.

 

The message read – “This is just the beginning,

If you know whom to vote for. It’s bad

That we are late, but as a promise there is more in the offing”

The unraveled package revealed a neat little wad

Of crisp notes, a saree and to complete the triad

And the closing act of the homestretch

A little bottle of the finest no one had ever had

Tailored to suit the male half of the sketch.

 

It is at this tantalizing juncture

That the reader rightfully questions

What he can expect to conjecture

Should he be optimistic? Should he be tense?

Or should he simply take off his punctilious lens

And stop subjecting the narrator to this scrutiny

And for peace’s sake abandon any silent preference

While leave the man of verse to carve out the newcomer’s destiny

 

To the most inspiring of scripts

Seldom has there been a fairy tale ending

And so shall in this case be no rescripts

For there is no scope for truth-bending

The climax that is most heart-rending

Is the one where the rawness of life is relayed

Unalloyed, verisimilitudinous without any blending

A strong heart reacquaints itself with reality, without much aid

 

An insufferable society wallows in a putrid runnel

Of depraved ideals and moral turpitude

Saintly wisdom passed down ages is blasted into shrapnel

When streaks of deracination have deeply imbued

Till time sows the seeds of rectitude

Waves of misfortune will raze mercilessly

Over past glory decayed into desuetude

Meliorism dies its death slowly and painfully

On that note, I would rather

Not break the sad news with a feather touch

But let the reader put two and two together

And not flog the dead horse too much

The good ending for which I am in search

Will evade yet again, for truth is brutally bitter

And always knocks velleities off the perch

With that I cease my lamentable witter.