The Great Political Circus

It’s a musty day in the middle of summer and a career politician sits in a temple courtyard in a fringe colony of my city. He has lost his seat in the recent Assembly elections; his first ever defeat in three decades. But he hides his pain behind a veil of glowing, toothless smile. I am one in a thin crowd attending his little meeting. As men and women squeeze onto the pulpit in front of the deity, I hear hushed voices: Would he have come here if he had won? These discussions have nothing to do with me though. I don’t belong to these parts. But I have heard enough rumours about this man to pique my curiosity. Over the years he has carefully crafted a Robin Hood aura around him. I want to know if that has any substance to it and also beg for some charity for a devastated family.

As the meeting begins the man comes across as a radiant speaker. The musty heat is killing, yet he sprawls comfortably on a rickety plastic chair in a sweat-drenched pink shirt. The lone ceiling fan screeches on setting the pace for what is to follow. The buzz soon settles into a gentle hum of agreement as everyone is captivated by the man’s smile. I love his smile! I have always been a patient listener. I have listened to wise men and complete idiots with equal patience. The wise men will teach you something and the idiots will tell you what not to learn. As the meeting proceeds I try to pick up every subtle reaction of the crowd. Pretty soon I have a list of all the problems pestering these people – lack of drinking water, erratic electricity supply, broken roads and vicious animosity between rival political gangs. I am all too familiar with this list. It has been chasing our democracy for the last seven decades.

As people begin to pour in with their complaints the man shows his brilliance. He quickly shifts topic to religion. Voila, people have their opium now! What follows is a jaw dropping session of sermons. My favourite politician knows that religion sells. India has been chewing on this mind numbing herb since time immemorial. So he begins to describe how all of us are trapped in a cage of worldly desires. Desire for clean drinking water, desire for paved roads, desire for street lights at night – all these are a greedy man’s wet dreams. I look at the ruefully nodding heads in the crowd. The people have realised their mistake. They are on hallowed ground and yet cling on to their earthly pleasures. How lewd! My politician now proceeds to proclaim how clean he is. He doesn’t drink or smoke or gamble. His only addiction is that he never leaves home without kneeling in front of Lord Shiva. He was not only named after the biggest deity of Varanasi, he chose India’s spiritual capital as his honeymoon destination! I try to imagine him with his wife, inside their honeymoon suite, with bells tolling all around. It’s gross and I skip forward to focusing on his words. The man proceeds to tell how he has visited all the important temples, mosques and churches in India and I cannot help pronouncing him the greatest explorer to travel India since Fa-Hien. I wonder why he skipped the synagogues though!

The man has apparently read too much or too little of the great Indian Holy Scriptures. He keeps misquoting and murdering everything from the Bhagavat Gita to the Upanishads. But then who doesn’t! It’s a necessary spice for all political tropes. The people around me are in awe. They had come with mouthfuls of complaints. They will certainly go back with heads full of spiritual defecation. I am bowled over by this circus, so much so that my eyes moisten. I have finally found my guru of smart-talking. Not everyone is impressed though. A rather insolent woman thunders all of a sudden: If you don’t have worldly desires why do you come begging for votes? Stop this Ram-Rahim rubbish and tell us about your plans for us. Bad woman! Insensitive woman! I know she will be perpetually cursed by the gods for asking for her democratic rights on consecrated ground. I focus back on my master and he is not wee bit unsettled. He has had his fair share of trysts with such renegades. He calmly chuckles and describes how everyone is abandoned at death. “Does is matter if you are abandoned in life?” he asks. At this point I want to call up someone at one of those spiritual TV Channels. This man needs to be heard by the whole nation. He may not have a long, flowing white beard but he is a genius nonetheless. No one can take the bone from his mouth and just take off.

As the meeting comes to an end most of the crowd leave with glowing faces. My guru stays back with a small group of the most ardent fan boys. They have to discuss how to skewer rival factions. I walk sheepishly towards him and present my case for charity. “Have faith in the almighty, my friend. Who am I to help? If He wishes to help those people you talk about, they will be helped through some mortal hands. But those hands may or may not be mine.” The man subtly signals me to leave. I go back home and settle on my bed with a bout of explosive diarrhea. The heat and the sermons have had their impact.