 |  | | Mamata Banerjee campaigns in Jadavpur on Monday and Buddhadeb Bhattacharjee in the same constituency on Sunday. Pictures by Pradip Sanyal and Sanjoy Chattopadhyaya |
Shobhaa asks Mamata
• Do you see yourself as PM someday?
• Do you hate rich people? Do you cook?
• Are even mosquitoes in Bengal too lazy to bite?
• Are you not afraid of cockroaches, lizards, snakes?
Plus does Shobhaa find Didi s... (Oops! Read on) Things are about to change in India's "worst-governed state", going by the hysterical crowds greeting Didi as she races from one rally to the other on the last and final day of campaigning in Calcutta. It looks like a done deal. Fans shout out "Congratulations, Didi!" and pelt her with marigold petals as the Scorpio we are in zips past hundreds of people lining the route on a particularly muggy weekday afternoon. "My voice is choked," Mamata says somewhat grumpily. But she is obviously very pleased by the turnout at Jadavpur, her bete noire's constituency. Her candidate, Manish Gupta, is beaming as she briskly clambers on to the shaky dais and begins her speech. Speech done, she clambers off and we get back into her campaign car. Mamata is clearly on a roll and in control, seated on the front seat next to the driver, waving to school kids on cycles while pointing out: "The chief minister was here on Sunday… he stayed for five minutes… no crowd… so he left. Today is a working day and yet so many people have come. Elite people. Society ladies. Intellectuals. Writers. Filmmakers. Artists. A to Z, they are all with me. The CM is going to lose by 30,000 votes… his party will win no more than 10 out of 54 seats in north Bengal." She pops a couple of Cadbury's 'Shots' into her mouth. "Have a lozenge," she offers generously before pumping up the volume of the car stereo. She turns to businessman Shivaji Panja who was earlier introduced as "Didi's Man Friday… no… Man Tuesday, Man Monday, Man Everyday…." She instructs him to translate the words of the song for which she has written the lyrics. Shivaji assumes an appropriate expression and does Didi's bidding: "Return my shindur to me…" wails the singer, as Shivaji soldiers on with the translation. Mamata was inspired to pen the song after a particularly brutal murder that widowed a young woman, he explains. Everybody in the crowded vehicle knows the context. The mood is sombre as Didi says: "Over 75,000 people have been murdered by the CPM… this is the Second Freedom Movement. Our fight… West Bengal's struggle… is even greater than Mandela's fight in South Africa. We have independence but we are totally oppressed. It is nothing but state-sponsored terrorism. Atrocities are committed every day." Didi has got her choked voice back after a shot of a magic cough syrup and some more chocolate 'Shots'. Her minders say admiringly: "She hardly eats anything… she has not eaten the whole day. Just some tea and a few biscuits." I discover to my delight we have something major in common — Didi is a night bird, who surfaces at noon. I wish I could, too. Surface at noon. She sleeps around 3am but is working hard on changing her obstinate bio rhythms. The only calls she takes before 9am are the PM's or Sonia Gandhi's. But as she prepares for her new role as CM, Didi is training her body clock to eat dinner by 7pm and wake up earlier. Does she cook? She squeals with delight and says she loves to! What does she like eating? Aaloo chop, pyanji, moori, tele bhaja. When does she get the time? "I do many things," she boasts like a schoolgirl. "I knit, I play the Casio, I sing, I paint, I write poetry. Creativity is my third eye… that is how I relax." She does have a delightfully dulcet voice. Does she think women in politics are somehow judged differently? Mamata answers boredly: "I am not interested in all that. I don't think of myself as a man or woman. I am a human being." Her indifferent response reminds me of a rather startling question a senior journalist had posed to me earlier: "Do you find Mamata sexy?" Ummm, depends, I'd dodged, countering that with "Do Bengali men find her sexy?" It was his turn to dodge. A younger journo had admitted regretfully: "The problem in Bengal is that we want our leaders to be beyond such things — we prefer them sexless." Oh dear. What a pity! I'd also been told Didi hated rich people. Did she? "There is no difference between rich people and poor people. They are all people," she snaps, adding: "I am not bothered by such things." How will she attract those fat cats to invest in her state after the several debacles that have seen funds steadily flowing out? More so after Pranab Mukherjee's telling comment about the "lamentable financial health" of West Bengal? "They will all come," she states confidently. "They will invest money… and also enjoy their money… shareholders will be happy." Didi mops her face with an embroidered white stole that is draped over her off-white, green-bordered tangail sari (neatly ironed, with a fall attached at the hem). Her feet are shod in her trademark blue Hawaiian flip-flops. Uttar Pradesh chief minister Mayavati has her purses and Didi, West Bengal's chief minister-in-waiting, her flip-flops. For all her projected indifference to matters of personal vanity, she is clearly particular about her appearance and image. At 53, her jet black hair, tied into a nape bun, appears to be professionally dyed. She's wearing gold studs in her ear lobes, an HMT watch on her wrist and a ring with a shining red stone on one of her fingers. She works out on her treadmill every day. And eats frugally. She is pretty techno savvy and owns several gizmos such as an iPad, an iPod, a BlackBerry. There are several fan pages on Facebook, but she has yet to join the Twitterati. I cheekily ask her about marriage. She dismisses the question saying: "I didn't get the time… I didn't think of a personal life. My life was for the people who needed help." So much for the rumours that she had, in fact, opted for a brief marriage years ago before opting out. I ask her about the ten rupees she takes daily from her mother. Pocket money? "No. Blessings…" she says shortly, before waving to the fawning minions. Is it true even the mosquitoes in Bengal are too lazy to bite anyone? I tease. Didi snorts: "Bengali people are not idle people. We are not lethargic. The Bengali brain is very good. But for so many years, the CPM denied a good education to people — one generation with no English, no computers. I have promised 10 lakh jobs in two years. Read my manifesto… it is all there." This is the cue for Shivaji to hand me a glossy book with a kiddish illustration of two colourful flowers on the cover. The men in the car tell me proudly it has been designed by Didi. She explains: "These are grass flowers… we work at the grassroots level." The men nod and say: "Didi is an artist. She loves doodling. She has designed everything… written all the slogans… she comes up with the ad campaign personally." Figures. Mamata is clearly on a terrific high. It has nothing to do with the cough syrup. She has sensed imminent victory and the gloves are off. A somewhat risky strategy, say observers, especially since she is taking on the BJP. "What if the scenario does not pan out the way she thinks? What if Rahul Gandhi doesn't deliver in 2014? What if the BJP comes to power? She has not factored that in. She gains nothing by attacking them." Mamata is in no mood to listen to such carping. "The minorities are with me. My job is to create employment for all. I am with everybody. Muslims, Christians, everybody. I keep rozas. I have read the Quran. I go to church. It is the so-called Leftists who have tried to influence people in the wrong way. And now the BJP is trying it. There is nothing wrong with Marx and Lenin. But let us not forget Vivekananda and Tagore. Our culture, our traditions, our pride." Mamata's much-discussed modest personal space is interesting. Her office and home are located one lane away from the historic Kalighat temple. The place is an absolute dump. A shabby garage with abandoned taxis stands in front of the lowly structure she occupies (air conditioning is reserved for her brother's bedroom), but it's easy to conclude an important person lives there, going by the number of police vans and men in uniform lounging around the place. "I get no protection from the state but I belong to Z-plus category," she says. Not only is the lady fearless, she appears pretty reckless, too. Silly about security. As we clamber into the car and clamber out at rallies, she doesn't bother about her own safety even as crowds push past those tough-looking guys in safari suits who are trying in vain to keep them at bay. People grab her, touch her, push her and ignore all attempts to stop them. A foolish young mother attempts to shove her infant into the car through a narrow gap in the window. She wants Mamata to bless the baby. Nobody discourages her. From Didi to Devi — it's happening. "Is there anything at all that you are afraid of?" I ask the woman who has 46 stitches on her skull, and several fractures. "No… nothing!" she answers firmly. "Cockroaches? Lizards? Snakes?" She shakes her head. I think she is beginning to regret this interview and thinks I'm pretty crazy. She has just finished delivering a thundering speech to a rapt, besotted crowd of over four thousand people. There are several pit stops en route to Howrah. And she doesn't want to waste her choked voice on dumb questions. Like what she thinks of Anil Basu and his crass comments. She says disdainfully: "These are small, petty matters. They (the CPM) know only one thing —how to abuse and accuse." So, we get serious. How will she combat Congress goons after she comes to power? The ones who will attempt to muscle in, Mumbai-style, and strike deals with local builders — that's the feeling on the street. Mamata declares: "We will not allow land grabbing by any political party — not even the Congress. We want proper development. People are tired of atrocities committed by the CPM. They want development and education." As a quick afterthought, she adds: "Nobody cares about the Nano going from here. Everybody will invest… people used to be scared earlier. Not anymore. People are coming out after Singur… speaking up." What had stopped them earlier? "People had no confidence… they could not protest. Administrators were functioning like party members… not allowing people to vote. Even journalists were scared. Because the police worked for the party in power." I make no reference to talk of mass-scale corruption at the panchayat level that she apparently turns a blind eye to. Her admirers point out Mamata doesn't possess a magic wand. But people's expectations are pretty high after all her tall promises of creating so many jobs. Will she deliver? Can she? How? Didi states very emphatically: "There will be no interference from anyone. Not even family members. I trust everybody. I listen to everybody and then make my own decisions." Is this kind of tough talk really going to sound like music to her new BFFs in Delhi? What about her equation with Sonia, what did she think of her? Didi paused and answered carefully: "I maintain good relations with Sonia." Then she said something rapidly to her minders in Bengali and they reminded her that I do understand the language! So she adds: "They (the Gandhis) are very sensitive people. I don't want to say anything more." And yes, Manmohan Singh need not worry about his job. Nor should anybody else. To the question, "Do you see yourself as the Prime Minister someday?" Mamata giggles: "I am just a social worker. I want to help people. Many other big, big people are there — let them do that job. I want to remain a commoner. An LIP, not VIP." Errr… I didn't get that. "Less Important Person!" she chortles. Her minders join in the laughter. No comments on Binayak Sen, either. "Meet me after the elections and we'll talk freely then," says the future chief minister of West Bengal before jumping out of the car and greeting her delirious subjects. And oh… did I find her sexy? Well, sexier than Buddhadeb Bhattacharjee, for sure! http://www.telegraphindia.com/1110427/jsp/frontpage/story_13908116.jsp The voice I missed when Com. B spoke |  | | The occasional election diary written for The Telegraph by writer and filmmaker Ruchir Joshi. Joshi is travelling around Bengal, capturing snapshots of different local moods in his insightful and irreverent style | The red songs of Revolution ring out across the evening meeting. The group on the stage are good, disciplined voices, perfectly modulated yet passionate. A harmonium, four women in chorus, two men on either side with clear high throats singing about the mountain of fire — the anger — that has built up against oppression. The audience is seated on plastic chairs, quiet, alert, made up of all ages, but not that many youngsters. Outside the perimeters of the maathh, a whole crowd standing, watching. In the low buildings around, a few people in the windows and on the terraces. A news cameraman pans over the meeting, singing along with the troupe, the words clearly like the lullaby sung to him as a baby. After a while, the singers change over and an older man comes to the mike. This time the tune is a traditional Baul-Kirtan Bhairavi but the words are about the colour red: "Laal jey maa'yer shindur, laal ke keno bhoy… (red is the mother's shindur, why be afraid of red)." None of the attentive middle-lower-middle-class audience looks like they've ever had to be afraid of the colour red or the tara-hathuri-kaasthey — the star, hammer and sickle — on the flags that flutter around the small ground. The audience, the grandmothers, the babies, the state Special Security Unit safari-suits, the marriage lights among the swaying palm trees, the lone, perverse Trinamul flag on someone's gate, everything and everyone at Garfa-Katapukur is waiting for the senior Comrade Buddhadeb Bhattacharjee, chief minister of West Bengal, to arrive on the penultimate night of his campaign to retain the Jadavpur seat he has held for the last 24 years. The underdog anger, the fiery mountain of indignation, is now calmly hard-wired into righteousness, in this core of the core constituency that's electorally buoyed the Left's rule over 30 years. Under their MLA Comrade B, once young turk, now ageing lead tusker, this neighbourhood has moved from the quicksand of unauthorised refugee colony to the solid ground of moddho-bitto demi-suburb and the people are here to show their shroddha, their faith, in the revolution that hasn't, at least, passed them by. The singing ends and the warm-up speakers begin. "If increasing food production by so many million metric tonnes is awnyaay, then we want to be re-elected to continue that wrongdoing!" "We will have to shed blood!" says another, as if he was speaking at a secret cell meeting in 1975, as if there hadn't been enough of an increase in the metric tonnage of bloodshed in the last 10 years. The last speaker gives us this breakdown of recent history: "For 30 years we brought peace and prosperity to this state. But for the last four-five years a negative force of anarchy has begun to spread unrest and violence. We have been losing ground to the terror of the Maoist Trinamul!" As the speaker starts to delineate the struggle, the chief minister arrives in his Ambassador. As he walks up to the podium escorted by the SSU, ululations ofLalselaam-lalselaam-lalselaam break out at the edges of the gathering. Everyone applauds as he stands up to speak. For a moment the old gent searches for his teeth, but when his voice comes out it is clear and sonorous. "Comrades…bondhugon…ma-bonera." There are no exclamations in his voice, there are hardly any of the dramatic rise and fall theatrics so loved by other Bengali political speakers. He is calm. Firm. Matter of fact. Simply telling the truth. Sad but confident. Apologetic. But quietly optimistic. Suddenly, my mind goes back to another election meeting in 1986: the afternoon Maidan overflowing, it seems, with all of Bengal. I'm licensed by a video-camera to stand close to the podium so I have a clear view of two short dhuti-panjabied old men walking towards each other in joyous greeting. Jatin 'Jackie' Chakraborty is the slower of the two, Jyoti Basu lighter on his feet. As the two stumble forward on the bumpy Maidan turf, their arms jerk up in fists as if responding to a switch. "Comrade!", "Comrade!" "Comrade, Comrade!", "Comrade!". The two men hug each other with their free arms, the two upraised revolutionary fists unwilling to let go of the revolutionary arms which are held up by the revolutionary shoulder joints. I remember thinking these two couldn't have much time left, little knowing that they and their ghosts would still be with us 25 years later. At one point, I managed to get on stage when JB was speaking, to get a shot of the masses stretching away over his shoulder. I remember thinking that this speech-making was hardly the stuff of legend, but there again I was wrong. No one now on the Left, and certainly not Com. B ever attempts to copy the great Jyoti Basu-non-linear style of speaking: a growl, an anecdote, a dialogue he had with Indira, or with Rajiv, (but they didn't listen!), an image, a sound, all of it a moving verbal collage but somehow forming a whole, convincing picture that relieved you of your precious vote. Then there are people who remember going a long way to hear the oratory of Shyamal Chakraborty and the very different way in which he put together his "chhoto-chhoto kothaa", his tiny clusters of sentences, to create great hypnosis. There are others who remember the brilliance of Ashok Mitra, "a typical Bangal intellectual" who would draw out his sentences, somewhat in the manner of Sambhu Mitra, but whose wordplay, the mixing of classical saadhu-bhasha with gritty, daily vernacular, pulled you into his sharp argument and super-erudite worldview. I hear Buddhadeb Bhattacharjee say the word "hoshiari" (cunning), and I think he's suddenly speaking in Hindi. Whose cunning, I wonder, till I realise he's speaking of the damage Pranab Mukherjee (who didn't listen to him) is causing the readymade and hosiery industry in the state. As I listen, the Comrade comes back into an attack on the reactionary phalanx ranged against his Party and Government. "Our struggle is not only against these forces but also against the media that is supporting them and the money behind that media." I feel Com. B is looking straight at me, but as he continues I see it's just a trick of the light — The Com is actually looking up and addressing all the enemy satellites lurking in the night sky. As I keep listening, I realise I'm listening to the self-obituary of an era. This is not the martyr's voice that anticipates a great, losing but noble struggle in the 1950s, this is not the excited hike of tone informed by the sense of the proximity of power in the late 60s, this is not the trumpet of triumphant victory in 1977, full of stern intentions and a huge, huge stamina, this is not the holding chant of the 80s or the angry, arrogant rant of the 90s, this is a ledger of post-election excuses being read out by the chief book-keeper of Leftist grievance. Trinamul, the Maoists, the media, the Americans, the Hindu right, the industrialists, the people who opposed friendly industrialists, the sushil samaj — the intellectuals — anyone, everyone and their brother-in-law except the Party and the Front themselves. Whichever way you look at it, I realise this is Comrade B's last stand in the electoral arena: even if by some miracle he trips back into his office in Writers' Buildings, he will not see out another term as leader, the CPM cannot afford it. I feel an odd warmth towards this man as I watch him, and I'm not sure where this comes from. I feel bad for the decent man in him, the learned man, the film-buff, the avid reader, the poet and the playwright of whatever calibre he may be, but I can't bring myself to feel too bad for the mask of shobbhota, of civility, he has provided to the many who don't give a toss about culture or decency or humanity. I've heard The Com has recently been reading Jose Saramago's novel Blindness and I can't but think that he surely must get the parallels between a whole society going blind and the one he has helped blinder for so many years. http://www.telegraphindia.com/1110427/jsp/frontpage/story_13908114.jsp | |
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