National

Wrestling For An Electoral Advantage

Politicians do the rounds of 'akharas' in search of beefy bodyguards and booth capturers

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Wrestling For An Electoral Advantage
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COME election time and a rash of nexuses come to the fore. But a report in a British newspaper elaborating on how Indian politicians rush to akharas to recruit pehalwans did seem to be a bit high on Oriental stereotypes. Is it really true that not only do these Incredible Hulks act as the politicians' bodyguards, but also steal ballot boxes once the process of polling begins? As I hit the Delhi akhara trail, I found to my surprise that the report was not too far off the mark.

Sitting inside an antiquated yellow building, the revered trainer Guru Hanuman refutes my suggestions. "My people would not do that. Minister log kuttey paltey hain. Hum aadmi paltey hain (ministers rear dogs while we groom human beings)," fumes the 96-year-old teacher. "This is the same crowd of rascals which loots shops, attacks cinema halls and messes around with the lives of the innocent." Hanuman's attitude seems to have rubbed off on his pupils, who are exceptions at a time when several wrestlers would clearly love to mint some easy cash if they can.

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Others don't claim to be so ethical. Squatting outside a Gurgaon shop, Rajesh Kumar, who learnt wrestling for a year and is looking for an assignment, describes his poll job profile: "The task is simple. All you have to do is surround the candidate when he is on a speechmaking spree; beat up anyone who seeks to intervene in the proceedings; do booth-capturing, for which you are paid extra because it is a tough task."

Why is booth capturing so tough, I enquire, trying to conceal my amusement by sipping buttermilk from a formidable stainless steel glass. To serve milk is a sign of the host's decency and to polish it off the guest's, I am told in an affectionately threatening tone. Meanwhile, Rajesh's companion, who is dressed in appalling pink, snarls: "While booth-capturing, there is the police to contend with. The Government has become even more strict now, which is why more people are getting jobs. Then, there are political rivals. And, of course, reporters like you can get us into trouble."

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Do they make enough money, I ask with hesitation, their ability to slip into unprintables well-known to me. "Rs 10,000 to Rs 15,000 is normal on a booth-capturing assignment. Have you ever seen so much money?" the man in pink retaliates with a palpable hostility. Comparatively reticent, Rajesh adds: "I was a wrestler, and I left the business. After all, professional dangals (bouts) do not guarantee enough money. But if you become a bodyguard, you can make as much as Rs 25,000 on an election assignment. Besides, you receive five-star treatment everywhere because you are the politician's special bodyguard."

In fact, the desire for 'special treatment' motivates quite a few and, for some, it can mean free rides in an air-conditioned car or great food without payment. For somebody like Rajesh, however, there is just one temptress: money. "It can be the Congress, the BJP, any party. How does it matter as long as I am paid well and treated well?"

The average wrestler's attitude is understandable, since most of them would otherwise be unable to afford such luxuries. Yet, while they are crumbling to the charm of greenbacks like a pack of cards, what is more than evident is the ordinary recruit's innocence on account of illiteracy.

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And, it is this innocence that politicians capitalise on. Sitting in the picturesque precincts of his akhara close to the Inter-State Bus Terminal, the famous wrestler Chandgi Ram's son, Jagdish Kaliraman, explains: "The wrestlers who are being hired by politicians are rejects. They have failed to do well in the sport, but managed to build tough physiques which is inevitable after regular exercises." Recipient of the Bharat Kumar title in the 90 kg category of freestyle wrestling, Kaliraman adds: "The elections are providing them with the opportunity to cash in on such assignments because of the sheer need to survive. Most of them don't study because of their lower middle-class backgrounds, and subsequently they have no alternative apart from assisting politicians during elections."

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And which districts do these musclemen come from? Sujit Maan, a young wrestler, tells me: "They come from villages in Haryana. After joining an akhara, they do exercises, often breaking their ears in a dangal. After that, they tie up with politicians, giving a bad name to genuine wrestlers." Outside an akhara in Munirka, another wrestler adds: "While most of the akharas have got into this business in Delhi, a lot of guys come from Sonepat in Haryana, too."

Following a two-day journey, with sojourns scattered all over the capital, one thing becomes clear: if one is a successful wrestler, one's passion for the mat remains alive. But if not, all passion is thrown to the winds while one scouts for a job with nothing apart from useless bulge to fall back on. Add to that, a typical wrestler's infamous temper, and it makes for the perfect composition a politician is usually looking for. A gold medalist at the World Police Games, Azad Singh admits with charming candour: "Pahalwanon ka dimag mota hota hai. Gussa aata hai to kisi ko bhi peet detey hain (the wrestlers are usually moronic, and they can beat up anyone if angry)."

 Uneducated, aggressive, well-built and ready to take on anyone—definitely the ideal package—and available for a song if viewed in terms of the enormous sums spent on polls. Yet, their naivete reveals itself in more than ways than one. At a photo session inside Guru Hanuman's akhara, Azad Singh and another wrestler show a child-like zeal for posing for the camera. The first shot is with a mace. The second, without a mace. The third, with medals around Singh's neck. Then, Guru Hanuman, simple and idealistic, walks up to the duo and blesses them for the photographer's benefit.

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These are the kind of people who succumb to politicians' guiles and wiles, I would think later while four glasses of buttermilk, forced on me under threat, churned vigorously inside my fragile Bengali belly.

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