Desicritics Author: Anouradha Bakshi

The Thin Line Between Sanity and Madness

Anouradha Bakshi — Fri, 6 Jul 2007 00:22:30 EDT

I wonder where and who defines the thin line between sanity and madness.

One often thinks that one has seen it all and has got inured to almost everything. Then out of the blue, when you least expect it, you are hit by a bolt that strikes the very depth of your soul. I was sitting comfortably, cup of tea in hand catching up with the evening news when the daunting face of a slip of woman flashed on the screen, her eyes blazing with raw despair. A second later she was seen walking partially naked on the streets of a small town.

And yes like all streakers she was trying make a statement. But what makes a woman who belongs to a society where modesty is always held high resort to such an act? Pooja Chauhan had been trying to get a simple police case registered against her in-laws who had been abusing her and her girl child for five months. Nothing had worked, not even an attempt at self immolation as life is cheap in our land. But modesty is precious and needs to be protected. Needless to say the case was registered and the in-laws booked. But poor Pooja too was booked for indecent exposure and promptly and convenientlly branded ' mentally disturbed'.

This the the plight of a normal woman in a country preparing proudly to elect its first woman President. Somehow as those images flashed on the screen it is our whole society who stood naked and not brave Pooja and once again one was compelled to hang our heads in shame for more reasons than one.

There are many Poojas across India and will continue to be. Once again because of the media glare, the lackadaisical administration got into action, enquiries were ordered, emissaries dispatched and a sense of deja vu permeated the air, one akin to the one we all experienced a few months ago with the Ghaziabad girls or the Nithari kids. Wonder where they are and what happened to all the promises.

Pooja married out of love and today finds herself alone and stripped of her dignity, or so many will say and yet she reminds me of the incredible Mother Courage, one who never gave up. But can we as a society once again afford ourselves the luxury of remaining silent.

A Few of My Favourite Things

Anouradha Bakshi — Thu, 31 May 2007 00:19:51 EDT

Last week a TV crew came to Project Why. They spent two days capturing the shots they wanted and driving us literally up the wall. When it was over, the producer handed me a form that he said needed to be filled. It began like all data sheets with queries about name, dob etc., but then were a host of questions asking for one's favourite things.

At the age of 55+, it seems a little inane to have to answer favourite actor, food, actress, movie, colour, dress and God knows what else, so I simply followed the lead of my excited young colleagues. True there was a time when I did have a list of favourite things, but stilettos gave way to floaters as style was sacrificed at the alter of comfort! However one question caught my eye: What is your favourite book?

This one was for me, my true turf, as books had been my friends, solace, companions and mentors right from my early days. At first glance, it seemed an easy question as was I not the ones who lived and breathed books. I still remember how deeply moved I had been by Francois Truffaut's stunning film Fahrenheit 451 where the possibility of a world without books entered by adolescent mind.

So the question what is your favourite book? was one I had to answer myself. easier said than done as I sat pencil in hand trying to recall the innumerable number of books that I had read over the years and finding the one that could truly deserve the attribute of favourite!

My mind rapidly scanned the books I had always professed liking, but each somehow fell short of something. They seemed more to have been in tune with a particular moment of my existence but paled beyond that reality. What I sought was the book that had withstood the vagaries of a lifetime; the one that gave the same intense pleasure each time one opened it; the one that always had the ability to answer the query of the moment no matter what it could be; the one that could soothe frayed nerves and make you believe that life was worth living even in your darkest hour; the one that had never left your bookshelf!

My mind travelled back and forth as many titles came to mind, but only one could answer all the aforesaid questions as well as those not yet formulated as yes there was such a book in my life: The Little Prince by Antoine de St Exupery, a book that had entered my life when I was twelve and that still sits comfortably on my bookshelf.

To many and by the looks of it, The little Prince is a children's book, and I must confess that when I first read it, it did not quite compete with the adventure books that were hot favourites of mine. But I found myself attracted to it in an almost intuitive way and as years passed I often picked up and read bits of it at times when I was confused, sad or lonely.

The Little Prince is a mesmerising book as it seems to address to each one of us and any given time in our lives. It is a quaint philosophical fable written way back in the 1940s but one that retains its freshness as we meet its diverse protagonists: the businessman counting useless stars, or tippler who drinks because he is ashamed of his drinking.

And as you get lost in this world you realise the futility of many things you held as important and the importance of those you overlooked. You are gently taught of the danger of losing your ability to question what you cannot comprehend or what you find absurd. And gently you are led to the one secret that holds true in life and extols you to learn to look with your heart.

In hindsight I now see how deeply this tiny book has helped me and guided me in life and deserves to be my favourite book!

Street Food Ban - End of a Lifeline

Anouradha Bakshi — Wed, 30 May 2007 00:19:05 EDT

Bye bye hot samosas was the blog I had written some time back when one first heard of the probable banning of all street food in our city. Recently the Supreme Court decreed and imposed a ban on all street food.

We often fail to see things unless we have a real reason to. For as long as I remember I have driven past roads in Delhi not quite looking at street food. Lately I have found myself actually doing so and have been amazed by the abundance of what is soon going to disappear: From small road stalls to carts, from samosas to meals via fruits and zingy snacks, the street food culture permeates the very soul of this city! And true to its globalization efforts we now have Chinese food and burger stalls too! Frankly I cannot begin to imagine the streets without these. It is true that if we look closely at some of these stalls we are compelled to frown at the hygiene standards or the safety norms; however life without them seems a tad sad.

That was nostalgia but the problem does not end there. In my pre project why days street food was that forbidden treat we sought once in a while, but many of us do not realise that for millions in the city it is a lifeline!

At 5 or 10 rupees a plate it is a hot meal for those who do not have families or time to get up and cook. To others it is the sole way of having some fruits or a sweet treat. And to thousands of families it is the much needed income that brings a meal at the end of the day.

It was heartwarming to see that a leading TV channel had launched a campaign to save Delhi's street food on the lines of earlier campaigns to get justice. And the pictures that were aired were those of humble people who candidly defended their right to a meal.

That Delhi is bursting at its seams because of the daily influx of migrants is a reality that no one can overlook, but can one deny the fact that this has happened with the tacit approval of those in power. Swelling vote banks, new causes to defend were all part of a hubristic game and no one saw the writing on the wall.

As numbers grew so did the support network: food stalls, street barbers, cobblers, cycle repair shops et al. And greed broke all bounds: the greed of the politicians who wanted more voters, the greed of the administration who saw more sources of dubious income, the greed of the people who found new shortcuts to earning. Till the day when someone saw red and petitioned the courts.

I cannot but begin to imagine how the new law will be brought into force keeping in mind the host of people that it will affect: livelihood of some, sustenance of the other and above all extra income of yet another. The scenario is quite frightening as no real option seems to have been put in place. The ban on street food will swell the ranks of the unemployed and increase lawlessness. Or will it be a cat and mouse game that will benefit the greedy law enforcers as the fact that street food is available in the remotest recesses of the city makes it easy to move into a grey mode.

All this is yet to be seen, the large issue remains that once again it is the poor that will be hit. We will still find ways to fulfill our nostalgic urges as in all likelihood, traditional street food will find new moorings. What will disappear is the hot lunch option that sustains a multitude of people who toil hard in this city and make it a better place for us.

Child Abuse: The Length of a Lifetime

Anouradha Bakshi — Tue, 29 May 2007 10:03:50 EDT

The story of little M should send chills down every self respecting human being's spine. The question remains: Does it? Or have we become so inured to crime against children, particularly small children, that we turn our hearts away?

Can any society that calls itself civilized allow such incidents to happen, let alone happen with license, particularly when the child in question is poor. And if they do happen can one allow the perpetrators to roam scot-free as we lose ourselves in legal imbroglios?

M or the Nithari children or even the Ghaziabad girls were one may say exceptions, but child abuse is often much more insidious. There has been lot of talk of child abuse in recent days. A recent study shows some chilling facts as to the extent of this crime that seems to be mostly perpetrated within the supposedly safe boundaries of the home.

Child abuse is by far the most heinous crime and one of the reasons why it is practiced with impunity is because in most cases no one is ready to believe the child who has the courage to break the tacit code of silence. Instead of sharing the pain and alleviating it, adults are quick to rap the child on the knuckles and push her or him back to the realm of the very silence she or he dared break, and thus to the hell of more abuse.

The reason for this post is two fold. One stems out of a recent incident at Project Why when a child shared a personal experience. The experience was difficult to put into words and as always with children it came out in a garbled whisper. Thankfully the teacher she shared it with was sensitive and understanding and decided to come to me for advice. We soon learnt of the abuse this child had been subjected to and were glad she had broken the deafening silence she had lived in all those years. The first step towards healing had been taken.

But, and that is the second reason for this post, this is rarely the case as children seldom find a sympathetic ear when they decide to come out with the truth. A ten year old had been subjected to inappropriate fondling by someone she held in trust. The child had the courage to inform her mother hoping that at least she would believe her and act. But in spite of education and well worldliness the mother adopted the cowardly middle path and though the child was never abused again she had to live with her perpetrator for many long years.

That is the problem with child abuse as it is mostly committed by someone within the family, and often someone with authority. Breaking the silence means destroying the social balance and shattering the comfortable life one leads. It means taking sides and standing up for the child against all. It means risking to lose everything one has and somehow society has rarely stood for the victim. The hesitant and hurting child is often silenced or at best provided some half-baked protection and made to continue living under the same roof as the abuser.

Something is terribly wrong: a little child who has been abused and hurt has to pick rags for a living when what she needs is healing and love, another child is made to live long years within the same walls as her abuser because the social balance cannot be disturbed.

And even when perpetrators are caught, justice is elusive. Who knows where the Ghaziabad girls are or whether the Nithari children will really get justice, or whether little M's abuser will pay for his heinous crime. And these are just the few cases that got reported but every day there are children who are being abused and who need to be heard.

It is for us as a society to take up the cudgels and fight this crime. What is terrible is that it is often the victim and her family who are ostracized by the very society they live in. C is 14 year old and she is a student of Project Why. Just like M she was raped by a neighbour at the age of 4 and suffered severe injuries that needed corrective surgery. Her abuser did some time in jail and is now free but young C still bears the stigma of that rape and is shunned by all.

Yes something is terribly wrong and we cannot look away because in the words of Herbert Ward child abuse casts a shadow the length of a life time.

Global Warming - Let's Get Started

Anouradha Bakshi — Wed, 23 May 2007 00:16:49 EDT

I normally am rarely at home during the course of the day and thus am not aware of the comings and goings that dot a normal working day seen from the inside of a home. Yesterday I remained indoors on doctor's advise and spent most the time in my tiny office which is next to the main entrance of the house and thus closest to the gate.

My hope of getting some serious work done was soon shattered by the door bell that rang at disturbing intervals. Bar the ironing man and the gardener all other interruptions came from a new persona: the courier man.

Soon a little pile of envelopes of all shades and hue littered my usually pristine desk. There were a few bills, a few invitations but the majority of the pile was made of diverse promos and publicity material. Though we are only three in the house, my husband is a member of two prestigious clubs and thus on several mailing lists. From sarees to silverware, from furniture to food, from electronic goods to art exhibitions everyone seemed to consider us a valued customer. And each envelope was glossier than the other and in sizes that would never fit the slit of a mailbox. And if that was not enough, most of the envelopes were packed in high quality transparent plastic lest they get soiled!

Like in most homes, the carefully wrapped messages would soon find their way in the waste, and in city like ours where waste segregation is still an unheard concept, the carefully worded suggestions to valued people who simply add to the burden of a collapsing planet.

Everyone is talking of global warming and the need to act. And one of the simple ways of doing so is my protecting trees and saving paper. Is it not time for us as concerned citizens to raise our voices against this flood of publicity that now targets our very homes? I know that many will talk about the numerous jobs that this industry gives and supports. But is it not time to alter perceptions and reinvent things in a more environment friendly way?

In the times of the Internet and the electronic media, there have to be ways of halting the proliferation of publicity material that is suffocating the planet. And if one insists on printed material then one should use only recycled paper. I have often written about my concern on the proliferation of pouches that have hit urban slums and litter the roads and clog drains. Companies who market these are rich enough to invest into developing environment friendly packaging were it made mandatory. But in the game of money making who will bell the cat. And the cat is often within our home and goes by the name of comfort and convenience. It is so much easier to get a plastic bag from the shopkeeper than to carry a cloth one; it is easier to sump all garbage in a plastic bag than to segregate it.

Added to comfort and convenience is another culprit that goes by the name of convention. When we began our work almost 10 years ago and looked around we found that all organizations had beautiful brochures and pamphlets. In our earlier days we did the same but thankfully because of paucity of funds and the ever changing nature of our work we had to put a stop and look for alternatives. Those were the early days of the net and we jumped the bandwagon and created our website that we managed in-house. The rest is history and today even the printer has stopped making his customary sale calls. And today when people ask us for literature about the project we refer them to the site and the blog and if needed print out one set of the required information.

Be it plastic, paper or water, laws alone can never suffice. One has to change mindsets and alter our ways of thinking and be prepared to be called marginal or wacko. When my daughter got married we did not print wedding cards. Barring one person everyone did turn up.

It is time each one of us starts giving up old ways and find new ones. It is not an easy task but it is the only one that will help our children have a future.

Global Warming - Apocalypse When?

Anouradha Bakshi — Sun, 13 May 2007 01:15:08 EDT

Global warming is hitting our planet faster than we can imagine. The Intergovernmental Panel on Climate Change released its latest report: "Climate Change 2007: Impacts, Adaptation and Vulnerability," in Brussels, 6 April 2007 and the findings are alarming and urge everyone to act.

Recently magazines and newspapers have started highlighting the issue with regularity and publishing lists of what can be done. Many websites have come into existence each trying to make us understand the gravity of the situation and suggest remedial actions. Yet there seems to be no urgency in the matter be it on the national level or the individual one. The number of cars and bikes are increasing in quantum leaps, trees are being felled with renewed alacrity, the sales of incandescent bulbs is as healthy as ever and quite frankly none of us seem to care.

Plastic is being used with impunity and water wasted with abandon. In slums with the advent of credit cards and easy loans, there has been an increase in the number of motorcycles that young people use even to go to the next block and rev with glee to impress. The panni or plastic bag is to be seen everywhere from hand to choked drains, and plastic pouches litter the streets flaunting the names of the biggest MNCs. From washing soap, to detergent, to shaving foam, to ketchup, to chewing tobacco, to coffee, to jam, to shampoo every brand has its packaging for the poor.

A recent informal survey showed that each slum dwelling used an average of 10 to 15 pouches a day. We tried over the years to raise awareness on environmental issues but too not much avail. Perhaps we did not do it convincingly enough. One of our projects entitled Once is not Enough lost momentum. Maybe we ourselves did not see the writing on the wall.

Two years back we even launched a sustainability programme based on raising awareness on bio-diesel. In 2003 - 2004 we gathered one ton of seeds from the pongamia trees that proliferate in Delhi and milled about 300 liters of SVO the crude form of bio-diesel. We organised a meet to introduce slum migrants to this new fuel. Unfortunately because of lack of resources this project had to stop. Today each year, tons of plum pongamia seeds replete with oil are swept away and then burnt by the local municipality sweepers.

I guess we too did not pursue the matter with the required passion. However recent events have once again made us face reality and revive all our past efforts. A workshop on global warming and related matters was held with the staff and an action plan drawn. It was decided to revive Once is not Enough, a simple project that asks each one of us to find one more use of any thing they are about to discard. It could be paper, a plastic bag, a bottle, a box... The idea is to delay its landing in the garbage dump.

The Okhla children held a rally against plastic and went to many slum clusters explaining how its inordinate use could harm our environment. Teachers are now talking to the children about global warming and how we can help in arresting it.

It is not an easy task as most of the things we need to fight against are the very ones that spell success and achievement in the lives of the urban poor. Others are the ones that bring ease and comfort in our lives. But we will carry on as best we can as no education can be complete unless it teaches what is relevant to our day and times.

This is long journey, one we hope will lead to the day when our students will turn into young adults who walk three blocks rather than take a bike ride. We also hope that the day will come when MNCs will look into eco-friendly pouches and the pongamia seeds that go waste every year will yield their liquid gold.

Laborer No. 354495 - A Personal Journey

Anouradha Bakshi — Sat, 12 May 2007 00:31:16 EDT

India is celebrating the 150th anniversary of the 1857 uprising, often known as the First War of Independence. The capital is in a festive mood, a holiday has been declared and the police is on tenterhooks as is usual every time we celebrate an event.

For the past week TV channels and national dailies have been replete with visuals and articles about a sometimes forgotten page of our history. One such article caught my eye yesterday as in some tenuous way it links me to that important historical day. The article which appeared in the Times of India of 10th May 2007 is entitled Malegaon to Mauritius: On the Trail of 1857, and retraces the destinations taken by the 1857 refugees fleeing the revenge of the Company and sometimes the old feudal repressive order. One of the destinations was Mauritius and its ever growing need of indentured labor to work the sugarcane fields.

In 1871 on board the SS Nimrod, my ancestor landed on the shores of this island as Laborer no: 354495. Many stories were crafted to explain why this landlord of a village near Patna had fled his homeland. I have never been able to ascertain which of the tales is the right one but the two British officer's swords that form part of our family's legacy make me believe that he may have been part of the great uprising.

Laborer no 354495 was not an ordinary man as his descendants became leaders of the community and some like my father chose to come back to the homeland after Independence. My past often haunted me and I made the journey back to the very village he had fled from. It was there that I realised my incredible destiny and made the decision to pay back what I felt was a debt to my country, for had things been otherwise I would have been a simple village woman and not a diplomat's daughter.

One tends to forget one's heritage as one gets busy with the simple act of living and building one's own history. As you go along and create your own comfort zones, the past gets conveniently obliterated and memory selective. But one is never free of one's past that has an uncanny way of catching up with you as I experienced via a simple newspaper article.

Once again I see myself as the descendant of an indentured laborer who was compelled to leave his home as he had chosen to fight for his land and probably knew his days were numbered. Most of us have forgotten the struggle of those who laid their lives down to ensure that we could grow in a free country. A politicised extravaganza is perhaps not the right way to commemorate this important day. Maybe one should delve in some soul searching and assess whether we have been worthy of the numerous sacrifices made by simple individuals. And if we do so honestly the picture is not pretty.

A simple perusal of any newspaper or news bulletin is sufficient to prove this as it is often a litany of items ranging from rape to murder, from corruption to scams. But what strikes the most is the growing gap between two Indias: that of the rich who seem to be doing better by the day, and that of the poor who are just surviving.

What is truly frightening is the ever increasing abdication of responsibility by the rulers in every field possible: you cannot provide safety to women, so stop them from working at night; you cannot provide basic amenities to school so hand them over to private agencies. And it gets worse: you want to get rid of a disturbing person, the police will do it for you at a price. To earn extra money you can pass a woman for your wife and smuggle her out. Everything is possible when law makers become law breakers.

As one who has now spent close to a decade trying to help underprivileged children get what is rightfully theirs, what has shocked me the most is the total lack of concern of the privileged people who are unwilling to reach out in support. On the contrary many are contemptuous of the work one does. This break down of the moral fibre of our society is dangerous as it carries the seed of destruction.

How long do we think we can shield ourselves behind theories of fate and karma and wish problems away. How long can we maintain a stony silence in front of the injustice we see. True that we have seen an awakening of civil society but it is sad that it is only heard when the victim is belongs to one's own strata.

Those who fought for our independence did not seek freedom for a selected few, they sought it for every one. This is something we seem to have forgotten.

A Room with a View

Anouradha Bakshi — Thu, 3 May 2007 10:48:33 EDT

This morning I went to Mehajabi's home. I had thought that seven years had inured me to most things but I was in for a surprise.

I must confess that I have been haunted by Mehajabi's mom's face since the time I laid eyes on her and I decided to accompany Rani as she set out for her customary visit to the home of any child that needs heart surgery. This is to ensure that the child will have proper care after the delicate surgery.

Mehajabi lives in a remote enclave behind the Jamia Milia University. We left our three wheeler on the main road that runs along the river and set out on foot through a maze of lanes guided by her gentle father. Though the lanes seemed clean, we were soon hit by swarms of flies.

After a long walk we reached a tiny lane where a set of rooms stood in a row, Mehajabi's was the last one in the row. It was a tiny room where we were greeted by Mehajabi and her mother. Her brother played on the floor. A bed was the only piece of furniture. Clothes hung on a string attached to the wall and all the other belongings lay around.

We soon discovered that eleven persons lived in that tiny room. Mehajabi's grandparents, parents, two aunts and her 4 siblings. As we sat on the bed Rani nudged my elbow pointing at the door. It took me a few seconds to realise what she was showing me. The door opened on the wall that was a dirty orange colour that was the result of years of spitting pan (betel leaf). It was what this young woman had to stare at day after day as she went about doing her daily chores.

It was her room with a view.

Thankfully we were distracted by a chirping sound and looked down to see 8 to 10 chicks, some brightly coloured in pinks and greens. Mehajabi's mom told us that she had got them for the children to play with as she could not afford toys.

What hit me was that there was no anger, no resentment no bitterness; it was their life and they lived it in the best way they could. The young couple had shifted to the parents home when the little girl's illness was detected as from that moment on all that mattered was her well being. The whole family had come together to ward off the crisis.

I was overwhelmed with a multitude of thoughts that sought answers I did not have. I felt anger, sadness and total helplessness and yet I also felt humbled by the courage and dignity I saw. After a few minutes we got up to leave but were asked to stay on.

I had forgotten that this was India, a land where guests are always welcome and honoured. After a few minutes Mehajabi's father came back with a bottle of Pepsi and two plastic cups. As I held on to my cup, I realised that what I had been offered was steeped in emotions I cannot describe, and was far more than a simple fizzy drink. I drank my cup to the last drop as that was the only befitting thing to do.

By that time little Mehajabi had adopted me and was busy playing with my face. She had walked into my heart just as her mother had. We left in silence humbled and moved by that experience. As we reached the three wheeler where Hare Ram our driver waited, I saw some whispering between the father and son-in-law. The young man was sent to the corner juice man and a glass of juice was brought for Hare Ram, who was also a guest.

After all this was India, the real one that many have forgotten.

When a Child Dies

Anouradha Bakshi — Thu, 12 Apr 2007 00:38:11 EDT

Bachha Ghat is not a play ground for children; it is the only place where children under three can be set to rest after their death. Hinduism does not allow them to be cremated as it is said that their soul is not connected to their body. This was brought to light in a disturbing and shocking news item aired yesterday on national television.

What one forgets is that what is set to rest is not a few pounds of flesh. What is set to rest is a child, nurtured and loved by its mother, held with pride by its father. What is laid to rest is a set of unfulfilled and crashed dreams, what is laid to rest is a life cut short.

I can speak with authority as I lived all my life under the shadow of a dead brother I never knew, one that lived but a few days on earth but lived in my mother's memory till she breathed her last; a brother who was ever present in my life. I guess my parents were lucky that he was born and died in an alien land. A tombstone marks his brief passage on earth in a Prague cemetery.

I can speak with authority as only a few years ago I scurried around the city with a tiny bundle in my arms looking for a dignified place to lay it to rest. To many it was just a 7 months still born foetus, but for one young mother it was her first child.

I had been summoned to Safdurjung Hospital by a Project Why staff who was admitted there, as this very young mother had gone into a state of shock when she was told to hand over her child so that it could be thrown in the hospital dustbin. She had refused to let go of her baby and sat in catatonic inertia. When I reached the maternity word I just held out my shawl and gently asked the girl to give me her child promising her a dignified send off. She did. That was the beginning of an ordeal I cannot forget.

I took my precious bundle, which for me was above all a mother's love and went to the one place I knew - the Lodhi crematorium - foolishly believing that there must be an option for young children. As we alighted from the three wheeler I could see a bunch of predators (read funeral rites priest) approach us, gauging our worth and probably thinking we were an advance part to some funeral. When they knew what we had come for, they just walked away in disdain, not even listening to our plea. I must thank our stars that no one guided us to Bachha Ghat.

Refusing to give up as my promise had to be honoured, I stood my ground. A few minutes later an elderly man approached us and told us that we could bury the child a little further in the empty grounds that lay ahead. He did not reveal that it was the defecating place of the nearby slums. We found a place that seemed clean. No help was forthcoming from the people that had gathered around so we slowly dug a grave with our bare hands, and lay the little child to rest, wrapped in its shawl, and carefully laid stones on the grave and placed the few flowers we had brought with us.

Yesterday's news item brought back this forgotten day.

We are a city busy building malls and expressways; we are a city displacing the poor with impunity; we are a city busy widening the gap between rich and poor and yet this incident shows that at least in death rich children and poor children are treated the same way.

The said TV channel held a discussion on this shocking reality and once again we witnessed the birth of a new polemic with all the necessary ingredients for endless debates for all: politicians, opposition, religious leaders, the judiciary, the newly empowered citizen groups et al.

But as the debate goes on, more children will find their way to the Baccha Ghat while the city will be busy for 2010, a red letter day for many. Today's world is for the living rich, not for the dead and least of all for the poor.

Electoral Games

Anouradha Bakshi — Fri, 6 Apr 2007 03:12:03 EDT

The municipal elections are over in Delhi. They were less noisy and almost poster free but candidates did make their presence felt in novel ways: loads of street ambulations that looked like marriage parties where the well garlanded candidates paraded as grooms (never mind the gray hair and pot bellies) led by a rowdy group of hired supporters and drum beats. Their eager henchmen preceded them rapidly shoving garlands in the hands of by standers asking them to do the needful as the hero of the moment crosses their way.

What was different this time was the staggering number of independent candidates with amusing election symbols: over and above the well known hand, lotus ad elephant we had an aeroplane, cup-saucer, candle, house, locomotive, banana, mango, book, broom and more. Notwithstanding the use of EVMs, the supporters shouted: put your stamp on ...

The multiplicity of candidates and the well known time laxity in our land made many parties come face to face in the tiny lanes and often led to arguments and fist fights, in one case even gunfire!

I was happy to see that even simple people found this aggressive and bombastic electioneering an insult to their intelligence. They just played on, knowing that they would cast their vote for who they wanted. They were the ones who were quick to tell me the not so glorious antecedents which seem to be a common factor for everyone of them.

On election day however many hopes were shattered for those who did not have voter's ID cards as the options allowed by the Election commission once again divided India: PAN cards, driving licences or passports were IDs that would allow you to vote, whereas ration cards were disallowed. So those living in slums and whose name appeared on the electoral rolls could not vote as they did not have the required ID proof because they often do not drive cars, pay taxes or travel outside India.

Election day saw money exchanging hands and the presence of liquor was evident in the sway of many people as the day passed. A friend called saying that she questioned the validity of electoral promises which seem to state the obvious as were not municipalities meant to provide citizens with water, electricity and a clean environment?

There was a small feeling of satisfaction as the "none of the above" option was included. I remembered the fight undertaken to exercise the "refuse to vote" option some years back.

We indeed have come a long way.