ELECTIONS '98 COMMENTARY
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Sarpanch ne bataya hai

The reason, he hazards, could be that there are more policemen in the area. Sixteen companies of armed police are patrolling the Bijapur jungles, in bodies of about 30 personnel.

By now, the vehicle has reached Sagmetta, our first stop. A thatched hut, in pathetic condition, serves as the polling booth. There is a small group of onlookers around, and a queue of about 11 people inside. Our officer has a pleasant surprise waiting -- Sagmetta, which recorded three votes from a 690 electorate last time, has already polled 15.

"Sir, the voters are not allowing us to mark their fingers," the presiding officer says. "They want to vote, but they are scared of Naxalites. They say they will have trouble if the Naxalites find they have voted."

The zonal officer thinks for a moment. "Tell them they've to allow the marking if they want to vote. But if they insist, then let them cast without it. We don't want to scare them away, do we?"

I try talking to some of the half-clad would-be voters. Did they know what to do? What did they know about the party they were voting for?

The answer is the expected: "Sarpanch ne bataya hai (The headman has told us)."

The sarpanch, a dark, wiry man, dressed to kill on the big day, is in blue trousers with a striped full-sleeve shirt tucked in. He isn't the talkative kind. He has been told by "government people" to ensure that his villagers vote. And he has done his best.

Ask him about the Naxalites and a shutter falls. "Hamko maloom nahin (We don't know)."

They won't say anything about the Naxals, the zonal officer says as we set off for Mukaveli. "They call them 'andar ke log' or 'dada log'. They seem to have a good relation with the Naxalites. But they are also scared."

More than the villagers, he continues, the polling officials are worried.

"Last year, the Mukaveli people refused to let even the polling officials stay in the village. In fact, they wouldn't even give them a glass of water. They told us, 'We will listen to you any other time, but not during the election.' Finally, I had to take them to Sagmetta for accommodation."

The vehicle drops into more potholes, crawls out, and proceeds deeper into Naxalite territory. The zonal officer is now talking about democracy and how it meant little in such backward areas. The tribals knew nothing about anything, leave alone politics. Anyone, including the polling officer, could tell them whom to vote for, and they would do it without question.

"These are simple people. Somebody told them to vote, so they are voting. They are doing it as a duty," he says. "Bastar is at least 50 years behind the rest of the country; it will take a long time before these tribals learn how to use their rights."

The polling booth at Mukaveli is another thatched hut. It is steadier than the one in Sagmetta, and the polling officers, with fear writ on their faces, are going about the business unsteadily. A group of half-clad voters, some in unbuttoned shirts in addition to their loincloths, waits a respectable distance from the booth.

As at Sagmetta, there aren't posters of any political party ("No party came for prachar this way"). There is one from the government though, extolling the virtues of voting. Among the illiterate, half-naked voters, the line Mathadan ek mathrupunya karthavay hai (Voting is a sacred duty) looks a pathetic joke.

Mukaveli, too, surprises the zonal officer. From the couple of votes last time, the polling has jumped to eight!

"You know what," he says, "after the Tarem blast, the police have stepped up their action... That's why there's this increase in polling. Good, good."

As the officer continues talking, the first woman voter of the day arrives. Hailing from a village deeper in the forest, Allwada, Madi has walked 6 km to do something she doesn't really understand.

The poll officers give Madi a warm welcome. "Come, please come," the zonal officer says, taking charge of the proceedings.

The presiding officer hunts frantically for the lady's name in his list, but cannot find it. He asks for the name again.

"Madi" she repeats.

"Madi?" says the official, puzzled. "There's no Madi here, only Gadi. Tera naam Gadi hoga. (Your name must be Gadi)."

The lady insists her name is Madi, and the official goes through the list again. No dice.

He looks at the zonal officer, who asks the lady, "Tere pita ka naam kya hai (What's your father's name)?"

Madi mentions a name and goes into an explanation. Being in Gondi, the dialect of the Gond tribe, it goes clean over the zonal officer's head.

The officials, meanwhile, are hunting frantically for the elusive name. The last thing they want is to turn away a voter. What could possibly have gone wrong?

Ten minutes later, after much questioning and discussion, the zonal officer finds out. The clever chap who made the list has inserted Madi's name under the column for father's name. Madi can't vote this time.

As Madi walks away, the zonal officer has a change of heart.

"Poor thing, she came all the way to vote; if I send her back now nobody will come from that village. What's the harm in letting her vote when you are sure about her identity?"

"Madi," he yelled, "Aajao, vote karo. (Come and vote.)"

By the time the zonal officer climbs into his jeep again, the polling has touched 16. And more are coming.

"Good, good," he says.

Back at Sagmetta, his spirits lift even further. Though there isn't anyone waiting anymore -- except the sarpanch -- the booth has polled 98 votes.

"Good, very good," he says as he climbs into the jeep, grinning happily. Things are looking up in his area, there hasn't been any Naxal incident, and the tribals are voting -- so what if they don't know what they are doing?

Miles away, in another booth, another zonal officer was working himself into a purple rage. He had come happily to this village -- which, for reasons the reader will soon understand, must remain unnamed -- and had found the polling booth locked!

Yes, there was a cheap padlock on the door and the polling officers -- all teachers -- were missing.

"Where are they?" he roars at the kotwal (the government representative in every village). "Bulao (Call them)".

The kotwal confesses that the officials had... well, gone out for lunch. Which only infuriates the officer more.

"Bulao saalonko," he roars again. "This is the kind of awareness we have here. Even the polling officials, educated blasted teachers, don't know what they are doing!"

The presiding officer, meanwhile, appears on the scene. He is a youngish chap, and shows evident signs of having been dragged away from a meal.

"Where had you gone?" The officer is shaking. "Don't you have brains?"

"Sir, yahan koi nahi tha (There was no one here)," he tries to explain.

"You wanted lunch, didn't you? You can collect your suspension order and keep having lunch at home!"

The rest of the polling officials have all appeared by now, and are wringing their hands. The officer is in full flow. Snatching a paper he writes, "When I came for inspection at -- booth, I found it locked."

He gets the officials to sign the paper, gives them all another chunk of his mind, and storms out. There is a queue of voters outside. Seeing them, his mood somewhat lightens.

"This is also a Naxalite-affected village," he says. "But a good one. Last year we got over 48 per cent polling from here. Till now, we have got 48 per cent. We will cross 60 easily."

He walks to his jeep and turns back. "I'd request you not to mention that you found the booth locked. I don't want to report them -- they will be suspended immediately.

"You see, this is not their fault. They don't know better. The people here are yet to understand the importance of polls."

And with that, the zonal officer, this lord of the polls, climbs into his jeep and zooms off. To god over another booth where, undoubtedly, he would again find democracy taking a beating at illiterate, tribal hands.

Assembly Election '98

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