The answer to the question why most politicians in India do not get re-elected, is a no-brainer. It’s because of the strong anti-incumbency sentiment in the Indian voter’s mind. But why do some get re-elected, defying this? There are no simple answers to that one. The current series of state elections is a good opportunity to check out some ideas, because these provide all three variants of probable election outcomes: change (Kerala), re-election (West Bengal) and uncertainty (Tamil Nadu and Assam). Each state has different, distinctive politics. In two (West Bengal and Kerala), the Congress and the Left are direct rivals (each is the incumbent in these states). In another both are in an alliance led by a regional partner. In the fourth (Assam), they face each other again, the Left partners somebody (AGP) who may ultimately embrace the BJP.
The closer you look at these elections, the more confusing — and interesting — the picture looks. The Indian Union Muslim League, for example, is a member of the Congress-led alliance in Kerala, and is fighting viciously to save its communal votebanks from a rampaging Left. In Tamil Nadu, the Muslim League is in alliance with the Left, asking its loyalists to transfer their votes to its arch-rival in the bordering state.
You might expect the voter to get confused, but he doesn’t. And that is the other dominant trend to have grown in our politics in the past two decades, along with anti-incumbency. Perhaps because of the decline of the Congress and absence of leaders with pan-national appeal, elections have become almost entirely local. Even parliamentary elections are nothing but a collection of different state elections, resulting in split verdicts. Possibly the only near-exception to this was 1999, when Atal Bihari Vajpayee emerged as the first pan-national leader since Rajiv Gandhi.
But even these trends, and killjoy restrictions of the Election Commission on costs, noise levels, timings (no campaigning after 10 pm), have not made all elections boring. It is the grand characters that make Indian politics, and elections so fascinating. And no place passes that test like the state of Tamil Nadu. Between Jayalalithaa, Karunanidhi, and now even Vaiko, the state’s politics showcases a remarkable set of originals.
This was one, but not the only reason why our group of limousine liberals, a motley collection of journalists, TV anchormen, psephologists, economists and bankers, chose Tamil Nadu for what was to be our 10th election journey, and the first in the south. Of all the states going to the polls now, Tamil Nadu provides the closest contest. In a coalition situation, Tamil Nadu has become the most politically powerful state in the country in the sense that almost no coalition at the Centre can get the numbers unless it has the dominant Dravida party in its fold. The state has 39 seats in Lok Sabha and gives sweeping verdicts one way or the other. Since 1996, therefore, these 39 MPs have determined who will rule from Delhi. And, of course, the less charitable explanation is that after two visits to Bihar in one year, it was tempting to choose the state with roads among the best in the country.
Which brings us to the first key question. If the voter has moved to a bijli-sadak-pani-padhai-naukri (power, roads, water, education, jobs) paradigm, Tamil Nadu should have been as much of a no-contest as West Bengal. The progress in four-laning national highways may have been slow in Tamil Nadu — Union Surface Transport Minister T.R. Baalu would have you believe that is because of a hostile state government’s stalling land acquisition — but roads, even ones connecting villages and small towns, could live up to Laloo Yadav’s immortal description of roads being as smooth as Hema Malini’s cheeks. And while he may have failed to deliver on that promise in Bihar and paid for it, here Jaya has delivered remarkably well in her tenure — as, it would seem, on many other key parameters. The power situation is healthy and even her detractors acknowledge the great work she has done with water, pumping — through a gleaming pipeline that runs along the highway from Chennai to Trichy — from the aquifers of the Neyveli mines nearly 400 km away. She is obviously proud of this. And though our short meeting with her was meant to be off-the-record, I am sure she won’t mind my mentioning how proudly she talked of this single achievement: “We brought water from so far. Until then there was talk of evacuating Chennai because of water shortage. We saved the city.”
Even on other parameters, she has a formidable report card. In her time, Chennai has emerged as a mini-Detroit, with car manufacture plants coming up around it. Industry and agriculture have grown, a new IT corridor has come up, and lots of new jobs have been created. Social indicators are up, her work in tsunami relief has found international appreciation and, as far as that other new element, padhai, is concerned, Tamil Nadu seems to be having a most visible boom. Wherever you drive in the state, from the rice bowl along the Cauvery to the saline, barren flats of Virudhunagar, what catches your eye is new engineering, management and medical colleges. They have scale and style and look well-endowed.
So why does Jayalalithaa still look under pressure? Why are the pollsters so uncertain?
We owe our short meeting with Jaya to friend and sugar baroness Rajshri Pathy, in whose factory guesthouse at Villupuram, just 100 km outside Chennai, she has chosen to take an afternoon break. She will set out to campaign exactly at 3.30 pm, never getting out of the vehicle once. She lets us follow her convoy, but insists we keep our distance so as not to confuse any Election Commission observer into thinking she has too many vehicles. She is no longer holding public meetings as she believes (one thing on which Karunanidhi agrees with her) that they serve no purpose. She speaks from the front seat of her vehicle, a bright light shining on her face as people lunge and lurch for a glimpse, straining at the ropes held by the police to prevent them from getting in the way of the cars. Her message is short and simple. A little bit about her achievements, and then the promise of 10 kg rice free to any family that buys 10 kg from a ration shop. This makes her net offer Rs 1.75 a kg, compared to DMK’s Rs 2.
But if too many voters still have doubts on re-electing her, in spite of reasonably decent governance, it is to do with her style. Ordinary people tell you how autocratic she is; how many chief secretaries and finance ministers she has changed. The most striking realisation travelling in this campaign is how few people talk of the freebies the two sides are offering. It is as if the voter in this state has now evolved to a degree where he can put these behind, and talk of larger issues. Sure, many still say they will vote on caste or sectarian loyalties. But very few talk of the cheap rice and free colour TVs, not even in Virudhunagar, one of the poorest districts deep south, where vast expanses of acacia on both sides of the highway tell you how just one factor determines which zone is poor and which prospers: the availability of water.
People you meet in village chai shops give you theories on why she may still pull through. The DMK alliance, a junior government employee in Namakkal, tells us, is formidable, and should have won hands down. But she is a film star, her appeal among rural masses is intact. So this election, he says, can go either way. It’s like a ‘cat on the wall’. You don’t know which way it will jump. Well, that is why a pollster as formidable as Yogendra Yadav has refused to make a prediction on the state. Who will take chances with a cat poised on the wall?
Also read: Remembering Jayalalithaa: Those she put in power are parading her coffin for votes
If Jaya is the film star puratchi thalaivi (revolutionary leader), M. Karunanidhi is the rather modest kalaignar (writer). We are told he has a cutting turn-of-phrase in Tamil that has no parallel and in a largely literate state that obviously helps. We catch up with him in Salem, an industrial town in the heart of the state, and the rules of engagement are the same as with Jaya. No interview, no attribution, a short meeting and then, yes, you can join the campaign trail, but keep your distance please. This is the patriarch’s last battle. He is 83, has fought serious illnesses and has to be helped to walk. But as Kerala’s former Congress chief minister A.K. Antony tells me on the flight back to Delhi, he still has one of the sharpest minds in our politics. “That is all there. Very sharp,” Antony tells me. So is his repartee. He asks us where we think the election is heading. “We are only learning about Tamil politics,” one of us replies with the fake, obsequious humility you learn to lace your words with while talking with Tamil Nadu’s demi-god politicians. And you know what, somehow, even behind those trademark dark glasses, you can see his eyes light up. “I am also still learning,” he smiles, half in mischief, half also in contemplation. Later a businessman, who still prefers that Jaya should come back, describes how Karunanidhi has this incredible ability to establish eye contact with his audiences from even behind those shades, while Jaya seems so distant.
His supporters, though, seem to settle for much less than eye contact. Just a view of the most famous pair of goggles in India would do. So much so that as the convoy passes the town of Rasipuram, 35 km from Salem on the road to Madurai, frenzied DMK supporters beat the sides, bonnet and the rear of our car. The driver figures out the cause of excitement. “Will you please take those off?” he asks Sanjeev Srivastava of the BBC, in the front seat also wearing thick, black dark-glasses! This, in a town where you see evidence of how wide and how far professional colleges and tutorial centres for getting into these colleges have reached. The most striking sight: a four-storey building atop which proudly sits a signboard, with a picture of President Kalam, advertising Shrichennai Computer Maintenance Centre.
This may be Karunanidhi’s last battle but it is also one he cannot be philosophical about. He needs this victory to stabilise the party, to set up his son Stalin as well as nephew Dayanidhi Maran to succeed him. A defeat would almost certainly lead to dissension, even a possible break-up in the DMK.
So he is out in the burning afternoon sun, too. You might think his supporters could show a bit more fervour. But you can also not miss alcohol breath as they get closer to you. A harried policeman explains how it works. Supporters are given an allowance of Rs 50 per day, a free ride and T-shirt with the leader’s picture, and a “quarter” litre of liquor.
It reminds you uncannily of Waterloo victor, the Duke of Wellington’s infamous boast that gin was the spirit of his soldiers’ patriotism. His soldiers, though, delivered against Napoleon. Will Karunanidhi’s do so this time? Wait till May 11 for the results. You do not expect us mere limousine liberals to stake our reputation on predicting a result that even Yogendra Yadav won’t!
Postscript: Every time you hit the road, you find one signboard you want to put away in your collection of highway humour. The one we saw 40 km short of Trivandrum on the way from Kanyakumari will be my favourite for a long time. It read:
Relax water tanks
Relax promises real relief
100 per cent pure virgin
15 years guarantee.
Of course, all that was on offer, at this town of Neyyatinkara, was synthetic overhead water tanks. Just in case you start getting ideas.
Also read: Remembering Jayalalithaa, six-term Tamil Nadu CM who was ‘Amma’ to her people