CHOOSING A SIDE

If I have not heard that humorous song – one in the tune of the Bol Bachchan's song – blaring out from the amplifier fixed on a scooter rikshaw, the subject may not have surfaced at all. The song is all praise to the candidature of a man representing a political party with the emblem of white clean face of a hand. Observed carefully. It’s an open right hand, posed for blessing.

“There goes one of your parties,” I told one classmate, walking along with me; one who’s less caring about what the song is conveying at all.

“Congress,” he was confident but the tone with which he called the name was less enthusiastic.

“The one to whom you're going to vote?”

“No! Not to it again,” he assured. “Congress is not my party anymore but the flower. I am settled with it.”

“Why not Congress? They work good. They are good to be straight. Even our country, as friend, benefitted a lot from them. They might work better if given a chance this time again,” I remonstrated.

“Forget it coming to power again! Instead they'll only retard the progress while wallowing themselves in the bliss of the tenure. All farce.”

“They are corrupt?”

“Not exactly.”

Another classmate who claims to come from the neighbouring state and till then who’d been eavesdropping us charged in: “ Modiji is honest. Better leader. India will run when he climbs to power. And your country will develop by leaps and bounds by the relation he creates.”

This caused smile on me.”But Congress already did that. They cemented good relation between us.”

The latter classmate replied on this, ”Congress only stretched a hand forward. Less assistance, isn’t it? Whereas, Lotus will offer you both.” He joined his hands in the gesture he meant.

“If both the hands are offered to us, well then with what will it look after it’s own homeland?”

“Never mind!” he was ready. “Still got the loyal feet and honest eyes.” Little mirth followed.

“So whom do you like?” the same countered me with the question.

“I don't know now. You confused me. Politics is a headache. I understand them less. I am a foreigner here anyway. And my liking is not a penny worth to your democracy.”

“Don't say like this. You live here so, you ought to be responsible too!  Choose Modiji. I suggest if you’re confused.”

“Futile again. I can’t caste a vote. Why choose?” I declined again.

“At least you can join a campaign,” both suggested.

“ Can’t do that either. We're expected to be aloof of things as this by the rules set against us, framed by the heads who sent us here. Breach them and we are expelled. Our involvement in your politics is forbidden. You see? “

“Oh!”

 I could reason them of my preference to remaining away, satisfactorily. But I sensed that my denial turned them down.  As an apology I said: “But if you happen to distribute pamphlets, disseminating your party’s manifestos, bother to pass me one. Reading, at least, may not break the rules I am bound with. Moreover, I like to know better your  Uncle Modiji.” J