Yes, I did vote. Not the first time…but, still, the same feeling of being a first timer. Planned the day, rather HOLIDAY, well in advance, two days before, not about whom to vote, but when to. Also, the most important part - what to do post voting.
The plan was very simple - Wake up in the morning, complete the daily chore, get ready, go out with the family and on the way – VOTE. Very simple, isn’t it?
(Are you seeing a reflection of your day in the above paragraph?)
Today, after so many days, the voting machinery has already thrown out, or rather spewed, the so-called custodians of the INDIAN GOVERNMENT, I am sitting back to ponder as to what does it mean to me to vote; rather - Why did I Vote?
One fine Sunday noon, the doorbell rings. A gentleman stands on the other side of the mesh door staring blankly (unable to see through the mesh). He stands under the frame of the door and rattles of a few questions, ticking vigorously on a booklet. Satisfied he turns back with a smile and thank you. He took down all relevant data about myself and my wife on that sheet of paper; both our signatures also on it. In return, he passed on to us a small strip of paper torn from the bottom of the page indicating our reference number. We have now been branded as a number.
A month down the line, just some weeks before the elections, we received our first communication; imploring us to visit a local school to be clicked. The branded number journey continues. The local school on the said day was abuzz with activity. Couples walking in with searching eyes and inquisitive looks – ‘Which room for Delhi Rajdhani?’ (that’s the apartments’ name.) ‘Classroom 4. Join the queue’, said someone in the queue.
More forms filled, questions asked, photograph taken. Job complete. ‘You will receive the I-card by post’, said the all-important looking lady in the late 50s and in the higher side of 95 kgs.
The mobile loud speakers (campaign autos) on the roads heralded the election season. Still waiting for the I-card. Then came the party workers knocking sweetly on every door, ever so amicable – ‘Please vote for us. This is your Voter number’; and they hand over a small slip of paper. The slip had our names alongwith the Voter number and the place where we could go and vote. Another school in the locality.
The Voting Day arrived.
I was not prepared. Though it had been a habit of skimming through news channels every evening, in between the sixes and fours of the IPL; the morning newspapers with their reams of black and white alphabets; I was not prepared. I had still not formed an opinion on whom to vote for.
But I still went to vote on that day. My wife and daughter accompanied me. My daughter, ever inquisitive, said ‘After this to Big Bazaar and Yo China.’
I felt myself to be a very concerned citizen of the country, aka, non-smokers. The pride reflected in my stride while I walked up to my booth, my family in tow, and stood in the queue. Scanning the queue, I found fresh faces, young faces, lined faces, creased foreheads, stooping postures, twiddling fingers, fidgety executives, smiling moms, grinning first-timers, exuberant middle aged, somber polling officers and stoic security.
I still felt the novelty of voting, as for the first time. Just the same feeling of lip-locking for the first time. The feeling of pride that I am about to contribute to the Indian Democratic process. The beauty of being surrounded by some known and mostly unknown faces. Lost one amongst the crowd, but still trying to keep my individuality intact. The floating sensation of being able to ogle at the plethora of fair skins in all shape and size, decked and bedecked, no-show mostly and a few all-show. A smile here, a giggle there, interspersed with some gaggle and guffaw. All in all being part of the slithering queue.
The EVM on the table evoked the sudden rush of reality – whom to vote for. I am not prepared. I was just like the examinee sitting for the Indian Statistical Institute entrance examination with the question paper on the desk in front, realizing the need to have concentrated a lot more while preparing. I should have prepared for the Voting also.
In a fast forward mode of 30 million frames per second, I tried to recall all the information on the various parties and their candidates. A masjid here, a terrorist there, weak man, strong man, burning train, criminal record, plane hijack in the Harappa era, dalit, naxal, eelam, filmstar, youth power, my land, your land, asset count, my brother, your sister, alliance, third front and fourth front without any backs, independents, future PM, ghost of the past PM.
Try as I might, I could not find the concern words which portray action or belief which would address financial stability, industrial growth, agricultural growth, water, power, infrastructure, border security, home security, internal peace, fight against terrorism, education, jobs.
I am sure that these are part of all political manifesto. But, am doubly sure that they would appear obscurely on some page 117 para 3 section q sub-section xix. The total word count would not exceed 364.
Try as I might again, I did not remember any one debate, discussion or speech wherein serious questions of the individual’s and the party’s stand and belief on matters of country’s concerns were asked by the media guru, sephologist, analysts, self-proclaimed social guardians and celebrities.
And I am sure, like the political manifesto, these questions would have been raised, debated, discussed and analysed. And, am sure again, that they would have been aesthetically and tastefully camouflaged, in the name of show packaging by the editor, amongst important, TRP-enhancer and ‘Know your politician’ knowledge questions like “Is this the same saree that Shakuntala wore while eloping?”; “How do you manage to keep yourself fit when you are on the campaign trail?”; look at the inside of campaign trailer which has a twin bed, a TV, a wash basin, a kitchen, and most importantly, the bathroom, the mobile charging unit – ‘for the 7 mobile phones that he carries’ and a workstation – a cramped laptop desk for his secretary – ‘the refrigerator unit is hidden and cannot be shown – encroachment of privacy’.
“Can you be little fast, please”, said a concerned voter in queue near the door. I looked up and gave him the important smile that meant and conveyed nothing, and shifted my gaze back to the EVM. The candidate list continued down two columns. The Election Commission must have exhausted all possible symbols that could possibly be taken from the daily interaction of an individual to the abstract association. I can speculate that at this rate, there would be mushrooming business vying for the tender floated by the EC for designing of copyright and trademark symbols of political parties for the next elections.
I finally pushed a button. A beep. What next, I quizzically looked at the polling officer. She blankly pushed her head to the left; an indication that I have finished my race. I should leave the inner sanctum of the vote machinery.
I walked with a smile on my face, blankly staring at nothing in front. The smile, as always for such occasion, meant and conveyed nothing.
The indelible ink on the pointer of the left hand a testimony of my being a bonafide and participative Indian. A proud Indian who contributes to the Indian Democratic process. An Indian who legally acknowledges and creates chaos. The Indian with a dream that future will be peaceful, the future will be ours.
I did vote.
The plan was very simple - Wake up in the morning, complete the daily chore, get ready, go out with the family and on the way – VOTE. Very simple, isn’t it?
(Are you seeing a reflection of your day in the above paragraph?)
Today, after so many days, the voting machinery has already thrown out, or rather spewed, the so-called custodians of the INDIAN GOVERNMENT, I am sitting back to ponder as to what does it mean to me to vote; rather - Why did I Vote?
One fine Sunday noon, the doorbell rings. A gentleman stands on the other side of the mesh door staring blankly (unable to see through the mesh). He stands under the frame of the door and rattles of a few questions, ticking vigorously on a booklet. Satisfied he turns back with a smile and thank you. He took down all relevant data about myself and my wife on that sheet of paper; both our signatures also on it. In return, he passed on to us a small strip of paper torn from the bottom of the page indicating our reference number. We have now been branded as a number.
A month down the line, just some weeks before the elections, we received our first communication; imploring us to visit a local school to be clicked. The branded number journey continues. The local school on the said day was abuzz with activity. Couples walking in with searching eyes and inquisitive looks – ‘Which room for Delhi Rajdhani?’ (that’s the apartments’ name.) ‘Classroom 4. Join the queue’, said someone in the queue.
More forms filled, questions asked, photograph taken. Job complete. ‘You will receive the I-card by post’, said the all-important looking lady in the late 50s and in the higher side of 95 kgs.
The mobile loud speakers (campaign autos) on the roads heralded the election season. Still waiting for the I-card. Then came the party workers knocking sweetly on every door, ever so amicable – ‘Please vote for us. This is your Voter number’; and they hand over a small slip of paper. The slip had our names alongwith the Voter number and the place where we could go and vote. Another school in the locality.
The Voting Day arrived.
I was not prepared. Though it had been a habit of skimming through news channels every evening, in between the sixes and fours of the IPL; the morning newspapers with their reams of black and white alphabets; I was not prepared. I had still not formed an opinion on whom to vote for.
But I still went to vote on that day. My wife and daughter accompanied me. My daughter, ever inquisitive, said ‘After this to Big Bazaar and Yo China.’
I felt myself to be a very concerned citizen of the country, aka, non-smokers. The pride reflected in my stride while I walked up to my booth, my family in tow, and stood in the queue. Scanning the queue, I found fresh faces, young faces, lined faces, creased foreheads, stooping postures, twiddling fingers, fidgety executives, smiling moms, grinning first-timers, exuberant middle aged, somber polling officers and stoic security.
I still felt the novelty of voting, as for the first time. Just the same feeling of lip-locking for the first time. The feeling of pride that I am about to contribute to the Indian Democratic process. The beauty of being surrounded by some known and mostly unknown faces. Lost one amongst the crowd, but still trying to keep my individuality intact. The floating sensation of being able to ogle at the plethora of fair skins in all shape and size, decked and bedecked, no-show mostly and a few all-show. A smile here, a giggle there, interspersed with some gaggle and guffaw. All in all being part of the slithering queue.
The EVM on the table evoked the sudden rush of reality – whom to vote for. I am not prepared. I was just like the examinee sitting for the Indian Statistical Institute entrance examination with the question paper on the desk in front, realizing the need to have concentrated a lot more while preparing. I should have prepared for the Voting also.
In a fast forward mode of 30 million frames per second, I tried to recall all the information on the various parties and their candidates. A masjid here, a terrorist there, weak man, strong man, burning train, criminal record, plane hijack in the Harappa era, dalit, naxal, eelam, filmstar, youth power, my land, your land, asset count, my brother, your sister, alliance, third front and fourth front without any backs, independents, future PM, ghost of the past PM.
Try as I might, I could not find the concern words which portray action or belief which would address financial stability, industrial growth, agricultural growth, water, power, infrastructure, border security, home security, internal peace, fight against terrorism, education, jobs.
I am sure that these are part of all political manifesto. But, am doubly sure that they would appear obscurely on some page 117 para 3 section q sub-section xix. The total word count would not exceed 364.
Try as I might again, I did not remember any one debate, discussion or speech wherein serious questions of the individual’s and the party’s stand and belief on matters of country’s concerns were asked by the media guru, sephologist, analysts, self-proclaimed social guardians and celebrities.
And I am sure, like the political manifesto, these questions would have been raised, debated, discussed and analysed. And, am sure again, that they would have been aesthetically and tastefully camouflaged, in the name of show packaging by the editor, amongst important, TRP-enhancer and ‘Know your politician’ knowledge questions like “Is this the same saree that Shakuntala wore while eloping?”; “How do you manage to keep yourself fit when you are on the campaign trail?”; look at the inside of campaign trailer which has a twin bed, a TV, a wash basin, a kitchen, and most importantly, the bathroom, the mobile charging unit – ‘for the 7 mobile phones that he carries’ and a workstation – a cramped laptop desk for his secretary – ‘the refrigerator unit is hidden and cannot be shown – encroachment of privacy’.
“Can you be little fast, please”, said a concerned voter in queue near the door. I looked up and gave him the important smile that meant and conveyed nothing, and shifted my gaze back to the EVM. The candidate list continued down two columns. The Election Commission must have exhausted all possible symbols that could possibly be taken from the daily interaction of an individual to the abstract association. I can speculate that at this rate, there would be mushrooming business vying for the tender floated by the EC for designing of copyright and trademark symbols of political parties for the next elections.
I finally pushed a button. A beep. What next, I quizzically looked at the polling officer. She blankly pushed her head to the left; an indication that I have finished my race. I should leave the inner sanctum of the vote machinery.
I walked with a smile on my face, blankly staring at nothing in front. The smile, as always for such occasion, meant and conveyed nothing.
The indelible ink on the pointer of the left hand a testimony of my being a bonafide and participative Indian. A proud Indian who contributes to the Indian Democratic process. An Indian who legally acknowledges and creates chaos. The Indian with a dream that future will be peaceful, the future will be ours.
I did vote.
2 comments:
Nice
good one rajib. Could spare so much of time! well, not for vote...........for writing?
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