Elections in Kerala

I was home recently, in Kerala.
Proud home of the first democratically elected communist government in the world.
And after many years, I was there around election time.

Every five years, the Malayalee hitches up his lungi (with it his ideological beliefs), knots it high on his waist and sets off to do battle.
Brother against brother. Neighbour against neighbour.
In multi-coloured lungis, shouting slogans political, bawdy, inflammatory and ludicrous, regiments march up and down the green paths of Kerala.

Every Malayalee takes a side.
It’s not very taxing.
You are either for the left.
Or against.
There is no third alternative.
If anybody claims there is, many pardons to your hitched saffron lungi brother, there isn’t.

In the evening, as you walk down to the toddy shop for a glug, the quiet is suddenly pierced with the pungent odour of a hundred men sweating toddy.
And there, past the palm-lined river bank, march a hundred toddy happy men.
Together, happy, committed, confident.
You let them pass, silhouettes waving red flags at the gathering dusk, bunched fists punching the hot, humid air and an imagined opponent.
And as you proceed, a few stragglers bring up the vociferous rear.
These are the ones who paused longer at the toddy shop for the one for the road.
This happy lot, somewhere between bottle 2 and 3 have forgotten their responsibility to the land at large, their duty to the nation, and pass by singing the latest film songs, fists proudly in the air.

At the toddy shop though, there still are a few stragglers, fighting ideological battles from the relative comfort of a bench, gathering confidence, faith and comfort from the spirit of life.
Here slogans therefore, are a little more colourful.
You question my ideology and I question your sister’s ways.
Till two ideologically separated men menacingly rise from behind their tables, and promptly fall into the fish curry.

On verandahs across the state, men deliberate with great interest chances, scams, scandals, policies and manifestos.
With every sip, your candidate’s chances increase and his opponent bites the dust, percentage after percentage, sip after sip.

At seminaries and temple grounds across the state, crusty theologians debate the policies of the opposing sides and its impact on the sheep.
Under banyan trees after dusk, men from the most educated and literate state discuss the effects of global events on their local elections.
Women cadres go door to door promising goats, cows and chicken in lieu for support.

In the towns, rallies compete with each other.
For numbers, decibels and for innovative sloganeering.
Till all assemble in the centre of the town and from loudspeakers facing each other, shout the other party down.
It has not been unknown, for over-enthusiastic speakers to hurl abuse at each other across the square.
Over the microphone.

Every morning during election time, the Malayalee reads more than one newspaper.
So that he can imbibe different points of view, to then abuse everyone who doesn’t agree with his.
In the ubiquitous tea-shop, impromptu debates rage all day till in the evening it shifts to the toddy shop.
And this goes on till election day.

Election day in Kerala is when you witness the power of democracy, the power of the common man.
Demand a car to go to the polling booth and a car will come.
Demand lunch and lunch will come.
Demand a drink and spirits flow.
Just for that one day, you matter.

You matter, you insignificant speck among a billion Indians.
Your mandate decides the fate of millions.

And then, there is peace and quiet.
In the toddy shop, the centre of our action, bonhomie resumes.
Till counting day.

In Bangalore, I don’t even realize when elections come and elections go.
I miss the fervour.
I miss the debates.
I miss the involvement in the political processes.
I miss the opportunity to influence the fortunes of our vast, functioning anarchy.
And above all else, by this constitution and everything else that I hold sacred, I miss the toddy.