Election Mela
There are not many places in this world where you can see a Political Candidate dressed in their finest as a halo imbued, glowing cardboard cutout in glorious Technicolor, and wreathed in beatific smiles, their hands clasped or extended in a blessing to their voting public. Below them a graphic image - a lotus flower or a wheel or a hand or an ass (donkey).
Trucks and autos would scuttle about town, loud speakers blaring peppy music interspersed by slogans on the greatness of above said candidate (or his opponent). Large processions of young men would walk, their flags proclaiming their allegiance. And by night Party supporters would walk in stealth and plaster your walls or paint your walls with their party symbols for greater visibility. Then the opposing party would paint or poster on top of that. Given the many parties contesting an election, in the morning my grandmother would often ruefully view her walls, wallpapered six posters deep in some places and featuring a giant mutation of a wheeled lotus flower that had suddenly sprouted a hand in front of a sunrise.
In India, elections were once melas with all the festivity of a mela (fair) and some of the drama of the biggest block buster. Voting fraud was not done by insidious machines but by large groups of men in jeeps who would storm election booths, and leave carrying unmarked ballots and boxes that they would then dedicate to their candidates. There would be brawls, and speeches were fiery and everything was fair game. I once heard a candidate say his opponent was impotent.
"If he cannot even satisfy his woman," the man shouted. "How can he represent you in the parliament?"
I missed the connection, but the people laughed and applauded. They had come dressed in their finest.
Our version of C-span used to show debates in the Lok Sabha that would put WWF fake shows to shame. Politicians flinging chairs at each other, politicians lugging politicians across tables, politicians tearing at each others clothes and trading punches. There was a time when a significant amount of these people had criminal records. There was also a time when a large group of commoners gathered outside the house of favorite politicians just so that they could see his face. Respect was shown not by a shake of hand but a touching of feet, an honor that Indians usually reserve for parents and the wisest and oldest of men and women.
Let me also point out, that for the millions of poor in India, elections were a time of excitement. Helicopters and decorated cars, paegendry and pomp, free gifts of saris and sacks of rice. Did they care what each party stood for? No. Because they would all make the same generic promises and break them. Thus voting was decided on three platforms - the familiar guy would usually win, the guy who belonged to the same caste as the majority would win, and sometimes the guy who put on the best show.
But for all of them, a powerful grassroots movement, sometimes motivated by politics, sometimes by ideals would work tirelessly to make these things happen. Though the grassroots movement in India is strong, and passionate, they were far less intellectual than those in America. However, they impart a very important thing that I believe everyone here could learn from.
It is: How to PARTY when your guys (or gals) win. Dancing in streets, bursting crackers, victory rallies, garlands, songs, gloating and cheering!
It feels good to win.And one must celebrate this.
How are you guys going to celebrate this?