Kharinja. If I바카라ve to sum up my reporting experience this election바카라something I바카라ve not done before바카라then it바카라d be that word. A word whose meaning I didn바카라t know, a word that deflated and angered the villagers of Raebareli and Amethi. When Rajmati, a farmer, told me that she doesn바카라t even have a kharinja, I first thought she referred to a farming tool. A grave tone, I thought, must correspond to a huge demand바카라it wasn바카라t. Kharinja, in fact, is a need so basic that many city slickers don바카라t even pause to ponder it: a side road.
The villagers of Poore Hundaliyan, in Amethi, had complained about their kharinja for years. Nothing happened. When it rained, their lanes flooded. During medical emergencies, they had to shift their relatives to a different house or carry them on a cot, as the knee-length water forbade vehicular access. Living less than a km away from the house of the current MP, Smriti Irani, they slammed her indifference. They had gotten so starved for a sympathetic ear that the presence of a reporter바카라a listener바카라animated them. I began interviewing one villager, Satyendra Tiwari, but soon, several of them joined the conversation, sharing one problem after the other. And every 15 minutes or so, as if checking their own demands and desires, they said: 바카라We don바카라t want a lot: just road, electricity, water.바카라
Hapless Indians expect the bare minimum from their leaders바카라and they still get less than that. Such moments made me realise the monumental importance of Indian elections. That this great equaliser was their big chance, their only chance. Leo Tolstoy once wrote, 바카라All great literature is one of two stories: a man goes on a journey or a stranger comes to town.바카라 During Indian elections, a stranger comes to town. And that stranger becomes a symbol of hope: Here바카라s someone who will listen to us; here바카라s someone who can forward바카라maybe solve바카라our problems. So, several villagers asked me, 바카라Sir, can you do something about it?바카라 They opened their hearts and homes바카라and spoke and spoke: sometimes, it seemed, just to themselves, their answers functioning as a trauma response.
It was impossible to remain indifferent to such situations. They constituted, for me, a 바카라Swades-like moment바카라. Remember that scene from the 2004 drama, where a kid runs beside a train, shouting, 바카라Paani lo, paani, 25 paise ka ek glass바카라? He keeps shouting; no one listens. He then sees Mohan (Shah Rukh Khan) and says, 바카라Saheb, ek glass paani lo na.바카라 Mohan looks at the boy, nods, buys water, and drinks it to the last drop. The train leaves; the boy disappears from his sight. Mohan remains seated, silent and frozen, and then, the tears trickle. What바카라s going on in his mind: despair, confusion, guilt?
Even though I primarily write on cinema and pop culture, I, like most Indians, know the many misfortunes plaguing our people. But, over the last few weeks, numerous charged complaints made me see my country in a light I had perhaps not seen before. The elections intensified that feeling, as it바카라s a rare time that fills regular Indians with hope. And it was that hope바카라that fleeting feeling which even they thought would fade바카라that felt more heartbreaking than their despair.
Some poignant experiences had nothing to do with the story I was chasing. Last month, in April, I was in Daalmandi, a Muslim-dominated locality in Varanasi, trying to understand the effects of the Gyanvapi controversy on the locals. Several of them refused to talk to me. I finally found an old man, wearing a kurta-pyjama and a prayer cap, who agreed. He was too deep in his own issues though바카라related to a familial property dispute바카라to talk about the city바카라s changing contours. But as he recounted his struggles (바카라I don바카라t even have a home, I바카라m also human바카라)바카라at around three in the afternoon, in a gully overflowing with buyers, shops, bikes바카라he wept. I stood there, numb. Should I comfort him? Should I continue to ask questions? Should I apologise? 바카라Look at me. I don바카라t have enough money to buy a watch or a ring,바카라 he showed his wrist, as if fact checking his own penury. 바카라I can바카라t buy a mobile, I can바카라t buy good clothes.바카라 I couldn바카라t help but apologise, then tried my best: 바카라Tell me something: Are you chewing Banarasi paan? What바카라s so special about it?바카라 The distraction helped. He smiled.
Indian men, or men in general, don바카라t usually cry바카라definitely not in public. But like the old man in Daalmandi, Jaffar, in Raebareli, also shed tears describing an incident that got him jailed. It was a scuffle between the Hindus and Muslims on the day of the Ram mandir consecration in front of a mosque where, he repeated more than once, 바카라I wasn바카라t even there, sir바카라. As the elections enter the last phase, these names and faces come back to me, like a series of snapshots flagging (basic) needs: a broken tap, a clean toilet, potable water, human dignity, a kharinja, a job. Hundreds of km away, I can do nothing but hope for them. I also hope to meet them again and hope that, unlike the last time, they are in a better place, in a better country.
