Summary of this article
15 years ago, it was the symbolism that struck you - a woman in a white sari with a green against a wall of red
This time, it was bickering over piyaji and jhalmuri, ideology against non-ideology and the possibility of parivartan in a battle of flowers
There were the front page solus ads in blazing orange proclaiming ‘bharosa not bhoi!’.
Silence sat on the day like a lid, broken only by the cawing of crows and the occasional bus. The air was equally still with flags hanging limp and ignored though the banners were pinned to railings so they shouted their messages. Yesterday morning, a girl had asked me, “Is there going to be trouble tomorrow? Should I come to work?” I had no answer to give her because the situation in front of us was one the city had faced fifteen years ago when a red fortress had turned into a green bastion. The evening speeches on street corners had been blaring for days – she was finished, her reign of terror would end, punctuated by dhaak beats to give it a regional flavour.
There had been shouts of ‘Jai Shri Ram’ in the streets broken by an occasional ‘Har Har Mahadev’ to change the subject. On the 4th morning I found two bike riders waiting for a third who had a saffron scarf draped around his neck. The trio took a selfie and muttered something about no bikes out before 11.30 am. Were they that confident then?
There was an air of indecision about everyone – people asked people whom they were voting for? And there were the front page solus ads in blazing orange proclaiming ‘bharosa not bhoi!’ I wondered which ad agency was responsible for that.
As a writer I looked for symbolism. Fifteen years ago, it was the symbolism not the ideology that struck you - a woman in a white sari with a green border going mano-a-mano against a wall of red. Three decades and four years silenced by stree shakti. What was it that the SMS read? 'Counting date 13th May, Ma Maati Manush 13 letters, Mamata Banerjee 13 letters, chief minister 13 letters'.
This time, it was bickering over piyaji and jhalmuri, ideology against non-ideology and the creeping possibility of parivartan in a battle of flowers. But no one talked except to ask, “Who do you think?” or “Who are you going to vote for?” A group of chiffon and pearls ladies even chose to go off to Darjeeling for parivartan in the hills rather than vote – their point was that it would change nothing so they might as well enjoy themselves in peace.
On voting day, a barrage of walkers, sticks and wheelchairs arrived at the booth ready for combat and managed to negotiate rickety ramps. We talked about ramp building measures while men and women went alternately to vote. I even chatted to my BLO who was happy that I recognised her.
Finger selfies were the trend – they spilled over Facebook and WhatsApp with Jai Shri Ram scrawled under one fat finger.
Was the rain the symbolism? It rained and the thunder rumbled and everyone heaved a sigh of relief. “But it could mean the sky is crying,” an Australian visitor told me. It could but the quietness was more ominous except for the war that continued in print – loud promises on one side, knee-jerk on the other.
And then the morning of the 4th dawned, with that lid still over pressure cooker feeling. By mid-day the orange was beginning to blaze and accusations were going back and forth in office about who voted and who did not and for whom. Most of them were certain the green votes would mount – I thought it seemed all too like that day 15 years ago. Corruption and bribery were common to all political things – so, unfortunately, was rape. ‘Plus ça Change, Plus C'est la Même Chose’ – that was the phrase - or "the more things change, the more they stay the same", cynically written by a French critic Jean-Baptiste Alphonse Karr 178 years ago.
Despite everything, the bikes did not roar out and nor were there showers of orange abeer – or perhaps there were in distant places. It was threatening to rain. No point trying to go anywhere if the atmosphere was so uncertain. ‘She’ll lose in Bhowanipore,” the chaiwala told me as he brought the office tea, “the Gujaratis haven’t voted yet.” I thought of my friend with the fat finger and decided to go home and experiment with some lasagne. Unfortunately, it was supposed to be baked for 28 minutes according to Tesco instructions – since I didn’t have an oven, I microwaved it for 20. The result was that smoke billowed – I looked at the charred blackened thing and thought that one could certainly call it a blitz of sorts.
