Colours filled the sky in unstructured patterns as night slowly crept into the shabby, modest town. The evening felt lively, light, relaxing.
‘Where are the performers?’ he asked the youth workers of his party loitering around, local boys, wearing white kurtas and tight tapering jeans. He knew them well. They were students in the local college, but more importantly they were dedicated to him, and therefore to the party.
‘Manish has gone to fetch them,’ one of the boys said hastily, as others stood in attention. Fear was evident on their faces as they stared at their leader.
‘Call him. Dada will be here any minute now.’
Loudspeakers were blaring devotional songs onto the meek, as if testing their devotion. It was Ganesh Jayanti, organised by the party in the vast empty space surrounding the party office. He was the party general secretary of the local ward office, an ardent devotee of both Lord Ganesh as well as Dada, and also a hopeful for the ticket to the upcoming zilla parishad elections. He had been in the service of the party for ten years now, selfless devotion of ten years, he thought, as he worked towards expanding the party to the grassroot masses in the town and the surrounding villages.
Dada, the regional party leader and elected Member of the Legislative Assembly, was an elusive personality. There were tens of local party groups in the town, hundreds if you included the surrounding talukas and villages. Dada had the ultimate say in the ticket distribution for the electoral seats the party contested from gram sabha to zilla parishad, and everyone sought Dada’s grace. It was a most difficult thing to convince Dada to attend ones’ functions when competing with hundreds of other local party leaders.
The performers arrived in a short while, dressed in white kurta pajamas, orange dupattas tied across their waists, instruments slung from their torsos. They had just come from performing at a marriage in the town. Exhaustion was visible on their young faces. The party workers handed them Bisleri bottles and pedas. Soon, the dhol-tasha performers also became a part of the hundreds awaiting Dada’s arrival.
He had arranged a record dance competition for local children aged six to fourteen. During the week-long festivities held every year, the party organised various competitions such as record dance, fancy dress, drawing and painting, cooking and so on, which received overwhelming responses from the local residents.
He wanted Dada to grace the event on the occasion of the prize distribution ceremony. Dada initially refused, but after much persuasion agreed to attend on Saturday. ‘I have a meeting on Sunday with the Chief Minister.’
A small pandal was built in one corner of the ground, where the idol was established. At the opposite side, a stage was built for the competitions.
The main road leading up to the ground was festooned with sizzling lighting, and a bewildering number of hawkers of things and dreams had already settled in. It will be a night to be remembered, he thought. Enthusiastic locals had turned out in large numbers. He had invited two journalists from local newspapers to cover the event. Leaders and party men from neighbouring areas were also in attendance.
‘Congratulations on your parishad ticket,’ Bunty said. He was taken aback by the comment, but deep-down he knew that Dada’s imminent arrival at his event had tilted the race for the zilla parishad nomination in his favour.
‘As Lord Ganapathi desires,’ he said. He had known Bunty for almost ten years now, and their ascendance in the party had largely coincided. Bunty was the sarpanch of a nearby village. Both of them prided themselves on making it big in the party, which was often described as an organisation rooted in nepotism and corruption. ‘Welcome, I thought you would be busy in organising Ganesh Jayanti festivities in Kasabe?’
‘Nothing is above party for me. I got a call from Dada saying he wanted to meet me.’ Bunty was gleaming with arrogance and pride as he said those words.
A shiver of suspicion and jealousy ran down his veins. Unbelievable, he thought. Surely, a party leader who strengthened the party in the town and guaranteed Dada’s electoral victory was more important to the party than a mere sarpanch of a sparsely populated village.
‘How long is Dada going to keep us waiting here? It is already 7.30.’
‘Yes, nothing is above party for us foot soldiers. I called his secretary an hour ago and was informed that Dada will be attending a meeting and will be late for the event by an hour.’
There was a flicker of disappointment on his face which he tried to hide with utmost effort.
‘As far as I know, Dada had no official meeting scheduled today,’ Bunty moved closer to him, ‘except for a meeting with that tramp,’ he said as softly and as inaudibly as he could. ‘I suppose you know about her?’ There was a hint of insinuation and contempt for Dada in those rumours.
He contemplated his words carefully to not fall into any political trappings laid by his political adversary.
‘These are the words of the grapevine foxes,’ he said nonchalantly. He shouted at the few partymen loitering around him for no apparent reason. ‘Do not stand here stupefied like ghosts. Go and see whether all arrangements are in place.’
From where they stood near the stage, he could see that the crowd was becoming fidgety. Intermittently, an announcement was made from the stage about Dada’s imminent arrival to revive the crowd’s enthusiasm. ‘I hope Dada does show up soon as the people are getting tired.’
‘What if Dada doesn’t show up? This is politics. People will forgive Dada for not turning up, but they might never forgive you for feeding them lies and wasting their time. But do not worry, Dada will show up for his loyal foot soldiers.’
He felt a peculiar sense of respect for Bunty for his encouraging words. It is sad that decent people like Bunty and me do not have easy path in politics, he thought.
‘Yes, he will’. He sensed a budding affinity and friendship between him and Bunty. They were standing near the stage, considerably away from the crowd as well as their party men. ‘I do not know if you know this, but there are some wild rumours floating about Dada,’ he said with a serious tone, but his eyes gave away his excitement.
‘Rumours are the backbone of politics. What have you now heard? About his mistress, murders, divorce, illegal assets, or his Swiss bank accounts?’
‘No. That he is leaving the party to join the Sena.’ Bunty’s eyes popped out. ‘I have heard this from my inside sources in the State party office’.
‘It is not a rumour, but a remark deriding Dada. A disinformation campaign spearheaded by the Sena to divide the party. You are a senior party leader in the town and should know better than to mouth the opposition’s propaganda, especially in public places. Dada has expended his blood and sweat into building the party in the town.’ The admonishment felt harsh and baffled him greatly, especially because Bunty had taken a moral high ground on the very issue that was deeply cherished by him – Dada’s reputation and party cohesion. The double standards: pig, eat shit and excrete shit. Time seemed to slow down as he contemplated his reply. The sparkling gold chain and gold watch adorned by the Swine was a testimony to his wealth and plunder of party funds and public donations. But didn’t he also sometimes dip his hands in the vast party resources? The Swine was still looking intently at him, his dark eyes piercing.
‘You know as much as me that rumours have a life of their own. I thought of you as a friend and shared it with you.’ A hundred enemies are better than a friend like you, he thought.
‘Of course, you are my friend, but politics is not about friendships, nor about these people,’ he said pointing at the restless crowd. ‘It is about opportunity. No matter who you are, or what you do, ultimately your worth is decided by whether you seize the opportunity that destiny bestows upon you.’ The Swine’s phone rang and he crept away saying, ‘Excuse me, I have a call to attend’, leaving behind a vortex of uncertainty in his mind.
The wail of a siren pierced the evening atmosphere. Dada has arrived, the male announcer with a groggy voice proclaimed from the dais. It was now past 8.30. When Dada’s car appeared on the scene, the dhol-tasha performers, who were frazzled by the delay, started blasting and battering their instruments to melodious effect.
As Dada stepped out of his posh government car, he was quickly covered in garland of marigold flowers. ‘Welcome Dada, we have all been waiting eagerly for you,’ he said. But Dada merely nodded while unburdening himself of the garland. ‘Let’s quickly get done with the program,’ he said and was escorted to the stage.
‘Dada has another meeting at 9 pm,’ he was informed by the PA. He saw that Dada was busy speaking with the Swine. ‘Dada will speak for a few minutes and leave for the meeting,’ the PA said again.
When they reached the dais, he again welcomed Dada by garlanding him in front of the crowd, whose dull faces were brightened up by the yellow glare of the halogen lights. Cold and mist permeated the dark moonless night as the sharp claps and cheers rung out. Being the organiser of the event, it was incumbent upon him to give a welcome address.
He addressed the crowd like a trained orator for the next ten minutes. Considering the gravitas of the event, he wanted to cover all the main talking points of the party to impress Dada, including his long-standing friendship with Dada, Dada’s busy schedule and his development work in town, misgovernance by the ruling Sena party, and the upcoming elections. Drowsy cheers rang across the crowd at the end of his speech. It went well, he thought. He invited Dada to say a few words.
Dada’s mood and behaviour reeked of holy seriousness. A man devoted to improving the lives of people, he had described Dada thus. Everyone expected Dada to speak feistily and aggressively, especially about the ruling party, corruption in state and local governments, drought, agrarian crisis, lack of development, corporate plunder of natural resources, etc, but they were in for disappointment as he adopted much more subdued tone. There were no jibes at the ruling party, nor was there any mention of the upcoming elections. This is not the time and place to talk of politics, Dada said in his speech, which focused entirely on his own development work in the town. In under ten minutes, Dada wrapped up his speech and took leave of the audience. He entreated them to continue supporting him and to return safely to their homes, not knowing that the real program would be starting after his departure.
It was about 9 pm when Dada departed, and the program started. A large number had already left for dinner, and the ones left behind were mostly the family and friends of the competitors.
He also wanted to accompany Dada, especially when he learnt that Dada was going to meet Tatya, a former local strongman of the party, whose position he now occupied. Tatya was old and frail, but he still had sizeable influence in the locality. Dada must have gone to visit him out of courtesy, he thought. Where was the Swine? He looked around but couldn’t find him. After enquiry, he learnt that Swine had accompanied Dada to Tatya’s house. He again felt that stinging pain of jealousy pulsating through his veins, but then he had grander things to focus upon. His young daughter in white fairy dress appeared on the stage and started frolicking rhythmically to the tunes of a jazzy English song.
He went to Dada’s office the next day but was told that Dada had gone to Mumbai. Although situated in an old decrepit building, the office grandly stood out for its corporate style glass panes and modern furniture. It was no use waiting here, he thought, as it was the last day of the Ganesh Jayanti and he had planned a slew of activities.
First, he donated blood at the blood donation camp he had organised. Then, in the afternoon, he attended an event to plant a thousand saplings. Later, in the evening, he distributed books and stationery to the under-privileged children in the locality. Tomorrow all the local newspapers would carry the events along with his photo.
Evening descended leisurely on the sleepy town as the winds blowing in from the sea intensified. They carried sweetness and also callous salty truths. Around seven, rumours started to swirl among the party men that Dada had decided to join the ruling Sena. It was blasphemous surely, but not entirely unbelievable. The felicitation ceremony scheduled that day was delayed as he tried to get in touch with the higher-ups in the party. No one picked up his call. He didn’t have Dada’s number, his PA’s phone was not reachable. His mind was clouded by fears and insecurities. In desperation he called the Swine, but even he did not respond. It is too much to make sense of this senseless world of politics, he thought. He had to get on with the programme.
After the programme, the rumours had attained a definite size and shape. Why did he go and meet Tatya? he thought. The crowd had also sensed the stinging winds raging from Mumbai. Did Tatya instigate the rebellion? Was it even a rebellion? He decided to visit Tatya’s house to settle the calamitous doubts, but his phone rang. It was the Swine.
‘What is happening in the party? We are hearing wild rumours here in the town?’ he blabbered. There was silence from the other side. ‘Hello?’ he shouted again in desperation but regretted it quickly.
‘I have called you on Dada’s instructions. Tomorrow Dada will officially join the Sena party. You also have to join the Sena along with all your party men at the Sena office tomorrow afternoon.’
‘And what about the upcoming elections?’
‘Are you now going to fight elections against your party? Make arrangements for tomorrow and do not inform the local press. We will do it at an opportune time.’ The call was abrupt and ambiguous.
The next day the flags and banners embellishing the local party office changed colours. Initially he felt uneasy about joining the Sena, but after much thinking overnight, he realised that without Dada, the party had no future in town. In the past, it was the blood and sweat of small party workers like him that greased the political machinery. But now, it was money. He now sat knee to knee with the very political adversaries he had blasted a day ago, and adorned colours he had vowed never to touch until death. Isn’t leaving your ideological party only for the sake of opportunistic gains a sort of death, he thought, as he sat meekly in the twelfth row listening to the political prattles of the leaders of his new party.
*
Pratik Dixit is from Ratnagiri, Maharashtra but currently lives in Delhi, where he practices law. When not tethered to legal texts, he finds solace in fiction.