Statue-tory Warnings- Shivani Mohan (INDIA) / Khaleej Times 26 July 2009

The train chugged along central India with an even motion and a steady, sing song rhythm. Finding one entire cubicle to ourselves, my daughter and I had made ourselves fairly comfortable with our luggage casually scattered all around the two lower berths. Across from us, on the side berth, sat an affable middle class family with a young kid my daughter’s age. The two children struck an instant camaraderie. Soon the whole family was busy chatting with us. Their constant banter and friendly overtures kept my daughter occupied, leaving me free to read my paperback, a luxury few mothers with hyper active children can afford on board a moving train. We still had five hours to reach our destination. Obscure little stations emerged ever once in a while selling too-sweet masala chai and soggy pakoras. Suddenly there was an air of expectancy all around, some commotion. The ticket collector came and checked with me how many seats we had, as he surveyed our luggage. He asked me to quickly clear up one side to make way for someone. The coach attendant promptly came and swept the floor and laid out fresh linen. He sprayed the musty train air with a fragrant room freshener that we had not had the privilege of smelling till now. A mineral water bottle and two sparkling glasses secured in cling-wrap were placed on the side shelf. Soon a man in a starched white kurta pyjama walked in accompanied by a lady in a neat crepe saree. He had an air of importance and self absorption that made any eye-contact or exchange of pleasantries impossible. Soon the curtain dividing our little cubicle from the aisle was drawn and we could see two pairs of sturdy shoes standing in vigil outside. My daughter peeped out from the curtain and saw two gun-toting body guards and she hushed back to me “Ma, they’ve got guns. Is there going to be a fight now like the movies?” I shushed her quickly and asked her to read a book too. Starchy-white in front of us, along with his wife, settled down and got busy with his cell phone, a fat blackberry, the new emblem of people who have arrived in life. It was obvious that he was a politician. His attire, his demeanour, his insolence and the body guards were complete give aways. I couldn’t help catching snatches of his conversations over the phone. “ Haan, DSPji. Yes, I have been very busy. Just coming back from the rally. What have you done about that crook? Don’t leave him I am telling you. Beat him and make him utter what you want, otherwise you know people above do not take kindly to these aberrations. Understood? Good.” Soon Starchywhite took out another phone and made a call. This time the tone was pure honey. “Sir, I have sorted out the bloody DSP. You will get the news soon ji. And any other service I could do? (Slimy laughter)... I am always at your service, Sir. It was only you who forgot me (some more slimy laughter). Ji ji, sure.” By this time another phone started ringing. It was not the blackberry. He juggled with the one he was talking on, and contorted to locate the third one from amidst all his pockets, managing a hullo in the nick of time. Crepesaree looked at him with a marked disgust. Starchywhite yelled into the third phone, “What? The new car? How can that be? Arre I have told you people to be more careful. Anyway let me speak to the DM. Don’t worry, I am there na.” Crepesaree, by this time had creased her forehead to a fine mesh as she stared at a spot above my head. It was almost as if we did not exist for them. Starchywhite, however, carried on relentlessly. He dialled a number and said, “So how are you? Haan, your plot is confirmed. Meanwhile one of my boys, you know apna bachcha, he was driving his new car without the number plate, impatient kid that he is. He has been caught at the Gandhi Chowk Naka. Make sure he is released immediately. He is my boy, ok.” The three phones kept ringing incessantly. He sorted out all sorts of petty wrangles. Job interview, no problem. Petrol Pump, no problem. Court case, no problem. But nothing to do with governance or public welfare. With each phone his wife cowered and scowled a little harder, simpering inside and sighing. My daughter who felt restless in the curtained trap went up to their side and tried making conversation, hoping to get the same response she had been getting from the other family. Starchywhite was too preoccupied to even notice. Crepesaree glowered even harder. Once in between all the calls he had turned to his wife and said, “Why have you made such a sullen face? I don’t know what your problem is. Enjoy all this while you can. Everyone watches, even the bodyguards, don’t you know?” They still pretended we didn’t exist. I pretended the book in my hand was the most engrossing book I had ever read. She dug him a killer glare and looked the other way. Only for that one moment Starchywhite had looked vulnerable, helpless and almost human. Later as we further took the road to reach our destination, the road has ditches the size of small cars. Visiting this area after eight years, I can see no visible change at all. No new buildings, no constructions. The same parched stretches between villages, the same dingy hamlets en route, none of the radiant signs of development one sees in Delhi, Mumbai, areas elsewhere in the country. The driver of our vehicle tells me that this road meanders between two neighbouring states — MP and UP, with the result that the administrations of both the states have turned a blind eye to it for decades. The Chief Minister of one of these states is busy getting her own statues erected at public places. Choosing statues over basic amenities for the common people is a pretty lopsided view in place. It is ironic that this state has heavy-weight constituencies that have a legacy of giving victories to India’s foremost ruling party, a state that the Gandhi family turns to every five years. Twelve hour power cuts are the order of the day in this area. So every day for half a day life is lived on hold mode. Impoverished rural walk into the house asking if they could do some work, any work for you. For any little amount. The image of Starchywhite appears in my mind. I had not bothered to find out his name or status. Why did he have to travel by train with lesser mortals, is still a mystery. Maybe he missed a flight. Maybe this was a PR exercise, a way of connecting with the masses, in which case, it certainly left much to be desired. It didn’t matter which state he was from, UP or MP; or which political party in India. Weren’t they all the same? Drunk with power and miles away from any real human contact. The bodyguards assured that.  The blackberrys assured that. Statues at every street corner ensured that. While Mayawati and Rahul Gandhi spar endlessly everyday deciding who has taken UP for a bigger ride, 40 years of Congress rule or Mayawati’s more recent statue-tory goonda raaj,  everything else remains the same all around and people such as Starchywhite thrive at the grassroots of Indian politics.  Shivani Mohan is an India-based writer. She can be reached at smshivanimohan@gmail.com