Kalimpong Calling

Democratic Duties

The twelfth essay from my 2002 book Kalimpong Calling.

Ours is a country that plays havoc with numbers. The story of zero invented here is now cosmic legend, and our gods and goddesses once numbered upwards of thirty crores. We are a statistician’s delight and a nightmare. Our constitution has more pages than the Bible, and the Mahabharata is the longest epic ever written. And very soon, we will accomplish another statistical feat that we never tire of gloating about: the largest democracy in the world will elect itself a new team to steer the ship. Whether it is the same set of folks at the helm or some other worthies hardly matters; the main preoccupation is to get the process right.

The giant administrative machinery suddenly has something else to worry about: the task of facilitating universal adult franchise. The foot soldiers who administer this ritual of democracy are the grade four and grade three staff of various departments, along with teachers thrown in for good measure. In a largely impartial invisible lottery at the SDO’s office, government servants are assigned responsibilities and polling stations. For that one moment the clerk, the teacher, or the officer becomes a “presiding officer.” The grand title bestowed upon them belies the humdrum reality of their actual duties.

Those not made presiding officers are not left out either. The second-in-command becomes the first polling officer, the next one the second polling officer, and so on — the cake topped by police guards complete with guns (or whatever the case may be). The presiding overseer has absolute control, including personal transport. Of prime importance is the task of educating all officials in election etiquette. In what are largely formal gatherings, both teachers and the taught tax their minds with details handed down from higher quarters. The ADOs and others strain their pedantic capabilities to the maximum, leaving no stone unturned in enlightening the gathering on the subtler points of electioneering.

Last election, they grandly introduced us to the voting machine. Officialdom was quick to abbreviate it as the EVM. This electronic contraption captured the political fate of the candidates and brought about a semblance of propriety to the process. It simplified voting, made it safer, and even made us superior to the US, where the duplicity of election results still plagues the world.

In Kalimpong, the day of departure is like a huge circus. The team has to gather, collect, and count the election paraphernalia until one is absolutely certain. There are up to three dozen articles of diverse hues and shapes and uses. Equally important are the unofficial provisions that do not find mention in the election manuals but are absolutely essential in making the whole affair a picnic for the majority. The only people dangling in confused uncertainty are those assigned to the “reserved” category of officials. These have to wait and see if they can fill in for anyone unable to make it at the last moment.

The rest move towards their destinations with varying senses of purpose. It’s a great way to explore the inner bellies of our great nation, a wonderful opportunity to guard the bastions of democracy, and of course a chance to engage in some of the most comical slip-ups ever enacted in the grand drama of administration.

One is my all-time favourite. This was before the EVMs had been introduced. A group of presiding officials, having satisfied themselves with all the formalities, set out for the polling station. After driving for the better part of an hour, it was collectively decided — based on one member’s uncanny hunch — to once again sort out the equipment and confirm that they had everything needed for the great day tomorrow. The good fellow was correct. They discovered that they did not have what the official list solemnly described as the “pusher.”

They counted, recounted, and searched in vain. The “pusher” was nowhere to be found. Thanking their stars, they returned to headquarters at the municipal building to lay claim to that useful appendage of electioneering — the “pusher.” Of course, they were promptly provided with one so that they could once again set out for the more important task of facilitating democracy. Needless to mention, the “pusher” was nothing but an innocuous bamboo strip used to push the ballot paper into the box.