By Toki Blah
For those who can no longer do the twist nor comprehend the lyrics of modern singers but who none the less, still love music, there is this memory of a crooner and song writer of the 60’s called Burl Ives. One of his hit songs in the 1960s was titled “Call me Mr In Between”. The opening lines of the song went something like this “I’m too old for girls but too young for women” so on and so forth. Its all about being neither here nor there; of being non relevant to a changed world; of being a square peg in a round hole sort of situation, if you get the drift. Poor Burl Ives, like all other creative persons who have problems adjusting to a mundane pragmatic world, poetry and songs is the only way to express his sense of resentment and frustration. An Indian initiative discovered a more innovative role for such social misfits. We push them into politics.
Now don’t get me wrong. I have absolutely nothing against politicians young or old. The poor dears have a cross to bear and are just carrying on like any other Indian; each trying the best he can, by hook or by crook, to put food on the table. Being a politician is no joke and something no sane person would want to experience or go through. A wannabe politico has to really rough it out. First step- How does one introduce oneself to the electorate? Placing spies or informants in every locality or ward is a common strategy. They are there to inform the politician of all the bad things (deaths, debts, fights and tragedies) that befall the electorate of any particular constituency. Its the cue for the wannabe to then step forward; to cry and shed tears if needed; to sympathise and shell out some wads of dough if so required (the best way to empathise); and in general, portray (this is very important) that a totally unknown stranger’s misfortune is his own personal tragedy. It’s damn difficult, as it calls for reserves most of us don’t possess. Hiding a piece of onion in the hanky to coax a reluctant tear or two when the occasion so demands, is often resorted to. However if you can’t fake it, forget it. It brings to mind an old, old hit of the Platters “Oh, oh, oh Yes, I’m the Great Pretender”!
Then comes the test; the ordeal; every political contender’s nightmare – the elections. The acid test that decides once and for all if the social investments mentioned above will pay dividends. Its all about whether people have taken the bait or not. Sometimes it works and the electorate gamely swallow the bait, hook, line and sinker! You’re then in, home and dry. Seat assured in the Assembly and if perhaps lucky, a berth in the Cabinet! At other times, and quite often, the electorate begin to smell a rat. They nibble; they play with the bait and they too start playing hard to catch. They pretend to turn away in search of a more attractive offer. In such cases, there’s need to quickly change the bait or sweeten it further. In the good old days, a tongue that waxed eloquent, a dead conscience and the ability to make promises never meant to be kept, would usually do the trick. Now however the electorate has wised up to such cheap tricks. A bundle of 500 Rupee notes can be expensive, but it usually does manage to convince the purchasable Doubting Thomas sitting on the fence.
Today we are already into the second decade of the 21st century. Things have really changed and with it the demands and expectations of a pampered electorate have also increased. Money in elections today is just for starters. Much more sacrifices are expected of the candidate. The candidate (Desperate Brave Hearts I call them) is expected to address regular street corner meetings, late at night, with perhaps only drunks and street dogs for an audience. Try explaining to such listeners the state of the Meghalayan economy; why our education policy requires a revamp or how one proposes to clean up corruption. Wobbly, swaying postures and raised hind legs would at best, be the expected response to any well prepared oration. It can sap anyone’s morale. Elected representatives gradually lose the will and urge to speak. No wonder so few open their mouths even on the floor of the Assembly!
Yet more pitfalls await the unwary. A middle aged and retired friend, Bah Jak, tried his luck at electoral politics and narrated the ordeal of the so called urban ‘house visits’. A candidate is expected to call on each and every household within the constituency. Failure would immediately attract the label of being proud (ba sarong), a death knell for any budding and aspiring Khasi politician. The constituency of this friend happened to consist of households located on steep hill sides, serviced only by pedestrian footpaths and steps. Twice a day, for 50 solid days, morning and evening he trudged up and down these steps, accompanied by his faithful wife, Kong Je. The only thing to look forward to was nightfall when ‘Volitra’ pain reliever, hot fomentations and khlein kohkarang would soothe weary aching limbs. That he eventually lost the elections; forfeited his security deposit, is another story, but to quote his woeful lament:-
“Jak and Je went up hill and down hill,
a few miserable votes to get .
At the end of the day and to their dismay,
All they could manage was a lot of Pang Met”.
Elections over, the results declared and the winner garlanded and paraded home. What next? The next shock awaits the social misfit who has somehow managed to win an election. He or she is now expected to indulge in skulduggery of an unprecedented scale. The fight for a berth in the ministry can be nasty and nerve wracking. It usually involves knife sharpening, backstabbing, betrayals, double speaking and shameless backtracking. All this usually leaves one completely exhausted and drained of all energy. It’s obviously not for the fainthearted, those with sensitive skins nor those with advanced years. One should therefore be more circumspect and less judgemental when pictures of snoozing elderly legislators and ministers find their way into the electronic media. Just try to imagine the ordeal these doddering elders must have gone through. The term ‘taxing’ assumes ominous undertones under such circumstances. Naps, anywhere anytime, are then most welcomed. For those past their prime, unscheduled siestas in the House demand public sympathy not sneers!
In conclusion, the reader should not misread nor misconstrue the motive of this writeup. Banish the thought; drop the idea; let go of the suspicion that the intention here is to deride, mock or lampoon aging politicians and their equally antiquated political capers. Its the furthest from my mind. In reality a more serious question pops up. Can society progress without wise elders? However one should not be faulted if at times a bit of doubt or reservation should raise it ugly head. For example a recent function at Pinewood Convention Hall, covered by the national media, was attended by a host of dignitaries including serving and retired diplomats. As the function progressed, a VIP seated amongst the plebs, was invited to address the gathering but some other VIP, of the elected kind, seated on the podium (probably with an age related thinking and hearing problem) stood up to rush forth and speak out of turn. Gasps from the audience and hushed ‘Oh My Gods’ were heard and the would be gaffe maker had to be quickly pulled back to his seat by the Chief Guest. A history making event, telecast nationwide, narrowly missed being overshadowed by a protocol faux pas of Cabinet proportions. As if Dr Mukul Sangma doesn’t have enough on his plate!
Author is President of ICARE