Legend has it…

The charring mouth of the long bamboo stick shoveled the dying pyre.

The wailing audience had long gone and the mound of wood that once hoisted the deceased on its brazen shoulders had now been reduced to a reckless rubble.

The final crackles echoed across the peaceful riverbank, as they kneaded through it to lead the ritual to fruition.

A strange confluence between the disquiet and serenity of death, or life, had overpowered my senses.

Legend has it that this is a land that is older than civilization, than myth or mythology – where it all began, even before there was a beginning; yet it is a place where journeys are meant to come to an end.

The cradle of our dualistic existence, it is a place where the desire may be liberation but the quest is survival and legacy – as amid the myriad sacred ghats are complaints of inexplicable taxes, subsistence living interwoven with tales of prehistoric rulers and gentry who shaped and owned this land.

Sinking the oars deep into the water – his slender strong arms shaped with hard labour – he paraded poverty, courting my financial favour for the umpteenth time.

Tales of destitution and political overlords flowed as easily from his tongue as those reminiscing about the gods – plebeians still living off the divine under the demanding gaze of the aristocracy.

An hour of jostling and the pilgrimage in the curvy, sinking boat, which was kept afloat by shuffling out buckets of water, had come to an end.

A final attempt and another failure meant that I was only willing to pay the bargained price, an arbitrary amount that I’d stingily deemed fit to expend – for survival was my instinct too.

The bill pouched he strode away in a huff, cherishing the coarse tobacco; “that’s physics,” explained a poignant observer later.

As he climbed up the darkened stone steps passing the busy traders outside the cluster of temples dressing their small, painted stall doors as makeshift designer windows before the grand evening mass, he paused.

While I soaked in the looming spiritualism, he munched blissfully; moments later a stream of hot red spew decorated the tar road before the boatman vanished into the sparse crowd searching for a new pilgrim – “that’s metaphysics,” he completed.

It’s serene, but there exists a disquiet.

The latent needs are still the basics – clean water, electricity, better roads and regularized employment along with a semblance of law and order.

But they remain locked in the perversion that lies in this chasm between physics and metaphysics – ensuring that the bright neon lights of the road ahead blind the traveler to his weakening grip on the wheel.

Institutions that should be governing have failed to sustain themselves; however strong the architecture is the haphazard quality of construction, corrupt maintenance and frail guardians with dwindling and apathetic oversight have proved to be its death.

The reason is simple; each time the present has held the past as a notorious concubine – a relationship that leaves repeated scarring on the future offspring.

That child can be seen today hustling through these ancient by-lanes – littered with god’s salesmen, their stalls overpowering the carved, dusty old walls – and by the smoothened highway to modernity, sitting in patient restlessness along the shantytowns that hope has spawned.

It’s serene, but there exists a disquiet.

Legend has it that this is a land that where the gods had begun creation and played games with sacred ornaments – the search for which they still continue, in the process bringing us face-to-face with mortality and offering salvation.

Legend has it that this land is cursed with intrusions and divisions, but before that it was blessed forever.

Legend has it that this land is a great democracy.

It’s serene, but there exists a disquiet…

Bones in the Backyard

The landscape remained unchanging for the last few hours.

The monotony of large swathes of arable land broken by an assortment of small, shaky brick blocks and straw-roofed huts held together by strong bamboo beams manufacturing small communities and noisy marketplaces.

‘There would be signs,’ I assuaged my buoyant expectations – despite the fact that the texture of this patch of earth betrayed its royal affiliations.

The roads were smooth and narrow, but these couldn’t be the paths for the mighty chariots of the empress; the sheds were wobbly, sure to collapse under the demands of hosting her; and the water sucked from the earth remained shaded in its tones, thereby lacking the force to ever grace her lips.

“She’s our daughter-in-law,” he said with a glowing smile while folding the newspaper.

My meek attempt at playing an outsider to politics had failed miserably, but he didn’t seem offended. Kicking open an inviting chair, he sipped tea from the mouth of the tiny earthen bowl.

“I believe that she will continue the family’s winning streak from here and the margin too will be massive,” he said, while nodding patiently to questions about whether people actually bothered asking about what she would do for them.

“It’s a matter of pride for the people to be supporting her, and the family has brought about change over the years,” he assured me, adding that much of the infrastructural development in Rae Bareli had been attributed to the Nehru-Gandhi family.

Just a tolerant drive through the heart of the district, however, showed that change and growth was in short supply.

The Gandhi name had spawned educational institutes and research centers, but life remains as morbid as one could imagine, reeking of stagnation. Basic facilities like electricity played a familiar game of hide and seek – lighting homes at full strength ahead of polling day and then leaving them in darkness as the EVMs were taken away.

In fact, even staunch supporters of the Congress Party and observers agree that crime is rampant in the region, albeit they blame the BSP government for perpetuating a culture of petty corruption among officials from the grassroots to the Assembly level.

“From the law enforcement agencies to bureaucrats, nobody moves unless they are given money,” he said, fiddling with the shrinking spiked tuft that revealed his receding hairline.

However, before I could suck in the next puff of air and give shape to a query, he briskly launched a stoic defence for longtime MLA Akhilesh Kumar Singh – a Congressman who has had a recent fallout with the party and the law.

“He has done a lot. From paying a fixed amount of Rs 2000 to any family that is marrying off its daughter to offering financial help for people who weren’t able to afford electricity meters and settling interpersonal disputes,” he narrated with a sense of appreciation.

How beautifully are they conned, I wondered. The pillars of a democracy are its institutions and there is hardly any talk of them in this state; the politics is as primitive as it gets.

Fiefdoms are engineered and local lords sustain it by any means possible; the empress, either riding on elephants or sawing her palm, remains a distant figure of reverence, whom people can’t even imagine to touch or question.

Under the shade of the tea stall, I had wished my informant farewell some time ago – only to now find myself resting on a cot outside a hut off the main highway at the edge of the district.

My host didn’t believe that much had improved or had been done by the family since Indira Gandhi had eased farmers’ water woes.

What about the NREGA, I inquired, as he bounced a perplexed gaze around. His aged friend – who squatted next to us – throwing up his hands in defeated ignorance.

However, a few patient moments of bridging our linguistic divide later, he fetched from within the strong mud and stone abode a long blue booklet that brought him under the purview of the scheme.

The date on it read 2006; surprised, he told me that it was issued just six months ago, which probably was why the columns regarding projects and days of work remained untouched by ink.

“It’s a card, but there is no work and no one has even come to inform us about how this will help us,” he said, scrubbing his rough beard. The older gentleman sitting beside us added that neither he nor his sons, who worked as farm laborers, knew about the scheme.

Strange, isn’t it. The Gandhi family has touted the NREGA as one of its biggest achievements, but the few people that I encountered in its backyard haven’t got a clue of what the scheme was about.

What’s worst though, is that people have forgotten how to ask questions. They don’t necessarily even know that they have certain rights; using them is another story altogether.

Maybe they’re just pleased watching the pompous election cavalcade roll by, whether those inside notice their seven-year-old son’s prematurely graying hair or not.

What worth is then development and bastion status pride?

Tommorow Never Comes

I should have taken the hint, but it probably was masked so transparently, so obviously that it didn’t even register.

The night had been short and warning tales of crime had rendered me much more weary than usual, as we rode along in the dark of the 5 a.m. sun.

Summer showers had washed away the varnish on this town, and the ugliness of urban living flowed down the roads that tired souls called home.

Soon the cracked tar paths gave way to a flat, cemented lane; across it lay VIP Road.

It’s a world in itself; a land that connects to the others upon its utility and convenience. Still, I missed the cue.

Hours later, I found myself traversing the narrow lanes in the heart of the town. In the soothing evening light, the cacophony of the massive wholesale bazaar was a revelation regarding private enterprise in this country.

The sloppy, lazing cattle and bustling traders were nestled in the bosom of crumbling ancient architecture that was decorated with political colours fluttering atop unceremoniously.

A century ago is what it tastes like. It was a time that this town had earned its reputation as Manchester of Asia – a textile and industrial powerhouse that had played its part in the Indian freedom movement.

But there’s little that self-rule, at least in principle, has yielded.

Electricity and water continue to be a major concern and the roads betray the sense of it being the state’s largest city; in fact, murmurs are abound that since Kanpur hasn’t fancied the queen, she has been poetic in returning the favour.

The flags along the dark roads, flanked with stores that kept lamps and lanterns handy, echoed the absence of the blue elephant.

But it’s not the trampling giant alone that has pushed this industrious land to its deathbed; rather, it’s a product of a broader malaise that infects the entire state – a few steps across the pristine temple that juts out from a brick walk along the corner and this demon comes alive like a mythological character.

The narrow street, divided by broken stones, is hidden underneath the mass of humanity that resides there. Shredded old houses and wasted brick walls lie above stalls where laborious workers strive to earn their meals.

Experts putting together aluminum cages, craftsmen carving dull wood into floral textures and artisans adding glitter to designer cloth amid a squalor that is akin to images of wasted young lives in the warzones of Afghanistan and Gaza.

Yet it’s identity politics along with some last minute back scratching that moves voters; no matter how the hard is the pinch of the lack of basic facilities cutting across all differences.

And the 2009 contest thus far – dominated by caste, religion and fear rather than positive debates around development and the future – merely resonates this.

The Congress’ Sri Prakash Jaiswal – the first face one saw parroting the UPA’s scripted lines after the numerous terror attacks in the country over the last few years – is the incumbent MP. It’s clearly not even worth it to waste print on his efforts – either at the local level or in Delhi.

The BJP has fielded five-time Kanpur Cantt MLA Satish Mahana; obviously, he’s considered to be a solid choice. But stroll around the city and soon you will begin to wonder what he has to show for performance over the years – apart from a boost in personal assets. (Click here for more) 

The Samajwadi Party’s choice of Surendra Mohan Agarwal – who ridiculously finds his moment of glory in finishing second in the 1998 MP race – is widely seen as a strategic pick that would hurt Jaiswal. The buzz around him was about the Muslim and Vaishya votes, nothing to do with growth or development whatsoever. (Click here to know more)

Finally, the BSP’s Sukhada Mishra, an ailing Brahmin candidate who was a sudden surprise as the party dumped Mohammad Salim, has remained unheard of during the campaign.

Wonder if these moves by the Mayawati and Mulayam Singh can be viewed as signals of future action post May 16?

As I pondered whether to delve into number crunching and the mythical science of predicting alliances and elections, a huge glass door greeted me.

It was the newest mall in Kanpur, located across a garbage-strewn railway crossing.

Pushing the door open, I paused. The sign above read “Entry” at the other end was “Exit” and mammoth central section was untouched – it was restricted for VIPs.

This time I took the hint…