For me, elections in India have always been happy times. During school and college days, elections were eagerly awaited for the holiday on the day of election, another on the day of counting, and yet another for some other reason. When I was working, if the elections did not give me a long weekend, I would take off all the days in between the holiday and the weekend, and go on a jaunt with my friends, where it was not raining, snowing or voting, and the sun was shining bright. This time around, the talk of elections is making me all wistful.
The other day, I was talking to Mahesh about the upcoming elections in India, and Karnataka in particular. No no, not the politics part of it. He was just telling me about how, without a long weekend, he was going to be stuck in Bangalore on a holiday. That set me thinking(though I don't look like it, I'm perfectly capable of thinking, thank you) - this was going to be the first election I'm going to miss since I turned 18. Democracy has danced a few times since my 18th birthday, and I have been proud to exercise my vote and participate in nation building. Even though the real reason was to have my index finger marked with a glob of unerasable ink. On a side note, I wonder what if the government had mandated that the marking should be on the middle finger, rather than the index finger? Hahaha. Can you imagine a line of voters going up to the electoral officer with their middle fingers raised? Would have served them right too - for screwing up my Voter ID cards(Yes, I said cards. I have two of them. Both with different names). The names were so off mark that I can't remember what was really printed on them(How do they type out these names?), but I do remember a few situations associated with the voter cards. One day, Dad had just come in from work. We were standing near the gate, chatting. A middle-aged man with broken spectacles approached us. He had some cards in his hand. He said something which both Dad and me did not understand. I was trying to place the language, but Dad had already decided that it was Gujarati(Why Gujarati? Makes for another post) and said "Illa illa. Mundhe(I know the "h" sound is unnecessary here. I put it there, lest readers pronounce it like I used to refer to a particularly irritating classmate) hogu. Shanivaara baa"(meaning "Don't beg here. Go on ahead. Come on Saturday" - since, on Saturdays, we are extra charitable to escape the malefic gaze of Shani). "Illa saar", the poor man protested, "nimma voter-id card bandhide"(No Sir, I have just brought your voter-id cards). That was no Gujarati - the poor man was trying to pronounce what was written on the cards as our names. My sister's name, however was printed correctly. But not her photo. Any guesses why? Correct. She was not in India, and she had never applied for a card. The next time we got our cards was a few months down the line. Dad, Mom and me were relaxing at home after lunch. Knock on the door. Mom opened the door. The smart guy standing outside handed her three cards with a flourish "Amma, nimma voter-id cards"(Ma'am, your voter-id cards). Mom took one look at the cards and handed it back to the guy saying "Nammadalla. Pakkada maneyavaradu irbeku"(Not ours. Must be the neighbours'). Smart guy glances at the cards and says "Illa Amma. Idhu Neevu"(No Ma'am, this is you) showing her a seemingly deranged woman captured on photo just before she killed the photographer(Reminds me of an examination during my engineering days. We, from Information Science, sat alongside students from Electrical engineering. VTU's plan to foil copying. Bah. It was our examination in Data Communication. The invigilator handed out the question papers. It was, what we called, a "bomb" paper. Most of us were rendered speechless, and kept staring at the paper. One of my classmates stood up and handed his question paper back to the invigilator telling him that he had handed us the Electrical paper by mistake. As we were sighing sighs of relief, the invigilator, with a sly smile, said "No. Read the subject code carefully, not the questions. It's your paper only". It was.) Amma hurried away to hide her card before Dad or me could get to it(I think this is the real reason why Amma does not vote. The photo must be too much of an embarrassment). Scratching his chin, Dad contemplated his card which had a photo like a mug-shot. Dad made an agreement with smart guy that he would accept the card if smart guy could guarantee that it was really his. Smart guy, of course, guaranteed (The irony. The cards were meant to prove our identities to the authorities. Here the authorities had to prove our identities to us). I gasped when I saw my card. There were some sort of bubbles all over my face. Only my eyes and hair were intact. "Problem with lamination machine, Saar" said smart guy. But of course, these gaffes were just waiting to happen, given the conditions at the offices where they issued these cards.
Dad, mom and me had gone together to apply and pose for photographs for the voter-id cards. First to go was Dad. They found his name, scrawled it on a slate and made him hold it while posing for the photograph. Seeing this, Mom and me burst out in laughter. Explains why Dad's mug-shot came out apt for a title like The Smiling Criminal. Mom sat down next, determined not to laugh. I was too busy searching for my name in the list, and I missed making her smile. I think the extra effort to keep a straight face did her in. As for me - when the official said "Look cemera(camera), Saar", I started searching for a digicam to grin into, not realizing that a webcam was capturing my face at that instant. From the id-card, I found out sadly, that I was squinting elsewhere, searching furiously for the elusive digicam. Sigh. These always happened in the run-up to the elections.
The actual election days were no less fun. People with multiple identities roamed the place. Like this aunty who had come to the polling booth armed with no less than four voter-id cards. The names were all shot and sent to hell, the photos were all of people she had never seen before in her life. The poor lady was not asking much, only to be identified by her address, from atleast one of the id cards. What next, age? My fate was better - I chose the card with the better photo and set out to exercise my vote. Exercise, I did - walking from one booth to another, since my name did not figure in any of the lists. Finally, I spotted the name that was written on my card in a polling booth, which, I suspect, was in another constituency. I voted without further ado and fulfilled my civic duty. These are lots more of such instances, but I think I'll leave that for another post.
Hey, by the way, this post was intended only in light humour - I am not aiming to deride the democratic process in any way. I am a proud member of the world's largest democracy, and I will have it no other way. This was, as I said, just for laughs.
Until next time, stay enormously happy. Just like me.
Ciao.
2 comments:
Wonderful narration!!! :) :) And adding to it, my father has 2 ids as well :(
Thanks Divya.. He he.. Maybe ur father is allowed to vote twice every time.. :D
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