Ballot-time in clubland

By the time you read this, the greatest election that mankind has ever known will be over. The Man from Madras Musings alludes to the battle for the ballot at one of those gentlemen’s clubs in the city. A hallowed home-away-from-home for over a century and more, it has recently seen more activity in the bar, by which MMM speaketh of the legal variety. Accusations of torts and malfeasances hold court, not to forget soccage and barratry in fief. But that is the way of all things in Madras-turned-Chennai, isn’t it?

Anyway, it is not the build-up that led to the present elections, held under the watchful eye of the law that MMM wants to speak about. The behaviour of the electoral hopefuls has, on the other hand, given plenty of grist to MMM’s mill. Several of these, who invariably looked through MMM all along, have now suddenly become friendly. What was once an eye like Mars, so to speak, has become an eye like Ma’s, full of the milk of human kindness. Having descended from their lofty heights they have begun taking cognisance of lesser beings, of whom MMM is also one.

The hopefuls have been calling up over phone. They have sent letters and emails. One group of aspirants has banded together and taken to sending combined appeals. The lone operators are more colourful. Some have printed expensive brochures on themselves, replete with full family details (ideal husband, doting Dad, good to dogs, happiest among books and great guy to have around the home) and social achievements (laid roads, built bridges, planted trees, dug wells and was good to widows and orphans). But more than all this, it is the personal encounters that they specialise in.

The Cheshire Cat is what comes chiefly to mind. MMM has to merely be in the vicinity of one of these suitors to become aware of a powerful and steely grin (is it because of gritted teeth?) being directed at him. Shortly thereafter, the grinner emerges in full and having fixed MMM’s eye with a steady gaze and enveloped MMM’s hand in a vice-like grip, proceeds with his pitch. Pausing briefly to remind MMM as to how he has been kind to MMM in numerous ways in the past, he speaks of how he plans to make the Club another Eden, a sceptred isle and a paradise on earth. All this is accompanied by steady gyrations, beseeching looks, heavy breathing and profuse sweating. After this follows a litany against the competition in the field. Then the final shot: “But with your support I definitely will make it.” By then another potential vote has been espied and so off he bounds, his figure not giving the least indication of such agility. MMM is not certain about the electoral verdict but  these candidates will definitely emerge fitter and more svelte.

Some have taken to canvassing in such earnestness that they smile and shake hands with just about anyone. One of these even embraced a passing waiter thinking him to be a member. The shock was too much to bear for both and they had to be revived with a few quick ones.

But, as MMM says, it is only a question of time. The results will soon be out and everyone will revert to hauteur, stiff-upper-lip and spreading embonpoints. Until the next battle for the ballot, that is.

Being ‘Adhaared’

Came a day when The Man from Madras Musings’ good lady announced that he had to get an Adhaar card. MMM was not exactly enthusiastic but in the face of the Iron Lady’s steely resolve he capitulated. All kinds of dire eventualities befell those without an Adhaar card, said the good lady. You did not get gas connections, banks froze your accounts and you became persona non grata with the powers that be, she added for good measure. The Adhaar team camped but briefly in each neighbourhood she warned, and they had a tendency like the Arabs (or was it the Assyrians) to suddenly fold their tents and leave. And once they had gone it was apparently like the moving finger in Nebuchadnezzar’s feast. Not all your piety nor your wit could bring them back.

And, so, off MMM went feeling rather like Childe Roland who came unto the dark tower. Nothing could be closer to the truth. Dark was the mot juste. The venue was a school, which had probably been designed by an architect who specialised in prison cells. It was with great apprehension that MMM walked in. In his fevered hands he clutched a set of documents, the most important one being a small census slip that proved MMM was for real and not a mere wraith or phantasm.

Outside the chamber waited an increasingly restive populace – wailing children, angry women, brooding men and a resigned-to-their-fate set of the elderly. Not a chair was in sight. There was no water either. And as for ventilation – perish the thought. If this was the fate of the ‘adhaarables’, those who were doing the ‘adhaaring’ were not much better off. They had the latest cameras and laptops, it is true, but as for the rest of the amenities that go to make up an ergonomic workplace, there was none. A sole fan that swirled slowly distributed hot air. The only light was from the laptop screens and the seating was something left over from the Chinese torture chambers. Bedrolls strewn about indicated that the Adhaarers lived on the premises. A permanent odour proved that they cooked, ate and answered nature somewhere close by.

Into this despairing darkness MMM stepped when his turn came. It was like something out of a noire Bengali film. The man doing the Adhaaring asked MMM to show his documents. He shook his head as though he was not satisfied and then left the room taking all of MMM’s papers with him. After a stage wait, a more superior being arrived and having looked at MMM twice, reluctantly conceded that he, MMM, was of Adhaar standard. MMM was asked to step in front of the camera and smile. But try as he might, MMM could not. He is now, therefore, permanently enshrined in Government records as one prone to melancholia. Then came what was known as ‘fingering’. MMM was asked to place his thumbs first and then all his other fingers on a gadget that recorded their patterns forever. Next time there is a smash-and-grab raid in the neighbourhood, the Government would know where to look. A cold nod indicated that MMM could leave. Outside, the women continued to be angry, the men brooded, the children wailed and the old remained passive. MMM smiled.

Afterthought

Coming away, his documents intact, The Man from Madras Musings could not help wondering as to why any interaction with the Government has to necessarily be sans any physical convenience. Surely in this 21st century, those in charge can be more sensitive to basic amenities?

– MMM