Democracy on the road, p.15
Democracy on the Road, page 15
The Gujarat election ended, as expected, in a kind of coronation for Modi. The BJP strengthened its majority to two-thirds of the seats in the Gujarat assembly, and fuelled the buzz we had already heard gathering on earlier trips, about Modi as a future national candidate. At this point, no state chief minister, even those with a global reputation like Naidu, had ever managed to win much support outside their home state.
But Modi was different in so many respects from other Indian politicians. He did not fall into the old school camp of politicians who play to caste and religion, or new schoolers like Naidu who play to economic development. Modi was both, a staunch Hindu nationalist openly playing to anti-Muslim sentiment, and promising not only to promote development, but to push it with a strongman’s touch. Modi thus tapped into the two deepest strains of frustration among Hindu voters: the sense that earlier governments had been coddling Muslims, and failing to generate real economic progress.
Though Indian journalists often work in fear of powerful chief ministers, speaking to Gujarati reporters we got a sense that they feared Modi with a special intensity, given the stories about how Gujarat’s ultra-efficient administration had kept a tab on rivals, the deaths of suspects in police custody and, of course, the riots of 2002. None of that seemed to matter to his growing base of support. If generating real progress in India required that democracy make room for a strongman, many voters felt, so be it.
Modi’s landslide re-election win defied the Indian impulse to throw the bums out, and people began to wonder whether there was anything beyond Superman’s reach? The victory fuelled a growing sense that Modi was the rare figure who could rise above the fragmenting Indian electorate, and form a government with a large enough majority to govern unimpeded.
Modi’s crushing majority of seats in the Gujarat state assembly had, however, obscured a less impressive haul in the popular vote. In the typical state elections, there are three or four major parties in the fray. In Gujarat, there were only two, yet Modi fell short of winning a majority of the vote. The BJP took 49 per cent, the Congress got 38 per cent, the rest of the vote scattered among nearly forty other parties. If a strongman at the peak of his popularity could not win an outright majority in his home state, it hinted at how difficult it would be for any leader to dominate a democracy as diverse as India.
18
The ‘Man Next Door’ of Indian Politics
State Assembly Elections, Madhya Pradesh, November 2008
That rich diversity was again on display eleven months later, when we headed to Madhya Pradesh, another state in the Hindi-speaking heartland which was also under a BJP chief minister—but one who seemed to be establishing himself as the ‘un-Modi’. Unlike his egotistical and stern-faced counterpart in Gujarat, Shivraj Singh Chouhan was always self-effacing, smiling, and as quick to describe himself as a team player as he was slow to take personal credit for the boom engulfing Madhya Pradesh, one of the poorest states in northern India.
Two months earlier the fall of Lehmann Brothers in New York had triggered the global financial crisis, which was already slowing growth across the world. Yet India was on track to post its fifth straight year of growth above 8 per cent—a first in its history. This run of good times was transforming Madhya Pradesh, where we found small towns beginning to sprout malls, glitzy billboards, multiplexes, auto showrooms and offices of Indian multinationals like Infosys.
Staying at the Noor-us-Sabah Palace hotel in Bhopal, the capital city, we were taking our after-dinner walk one night when we heard the rumble of four-stroke engines and, an instant later, saw a line of young men shoot past us on motorcycles, riding wheelies—a common sight, we were later told, among a subculture of young men who aspire to be Bollywood stunt riders. It felt like we had stepped into the exciting heart of the Indian boom, here in the heartland of India.
On our train ride into Bhopal the food was almost as disgusting as the carpets, an experience so miserable we would subsequently abandon train travel in India unless there was absolutely no option. Yet the capital itself was a revelation. Forever linked in the popular mind to one of the worst industrial accidents in world history—the 1984 gas leak from a Union Carbide plant that killed 4000 and poisoned half a million—Bhopal turned out to be one of the best organized, greenest and best preserved metropolises we had visited in India.
As we had seen in places such as Kanpur and Dehradun, many Indian towns and cities bear architectural vestiges of colonial rule, from clock towers to gymkhanas, but they are often broken, abandoned, or paved over. In Bhopal, at least one remained: the tree-lined ‘Thandi Sadak’ or Cool Road, where the British once took their evening strolls, shaded from the sun, and Indians were not allowed. In Bhopal, Thandi Sadak remained a vibrant artery, lined on both sides by sumptuous trees.
Bhopal is also known as the Lake City, and these lakes are largely free of the illegally built docks and shacks that line most urban lakes in India. In the Shyamla Hills neighbourhood of Bhopal, overlooking one of its pristine lakes, was the chief minister’s official bungalow, where we met Chouhan.
He had risen to become chief minister when the Hindu nationalist firebrand Uma Bharti was forced to resign in 2004, facing arrest on charges of murder, rioting and assault stemming from an outbreak of communal violence in the state of Karnataka.11 Bharti had supported Chouhan on the assumption that he was a humble sort who would happily keep the seat warm for her. Indeed, he had developed a reputation as the ‘man next door’ of Indian politics—the neighbour everyone could get along with—but he had leveraged that reputation to tighten his hold on power, not warm a seat for anyone.
Hosting us in his living room, he came across as that rare politician so comfortable with himself that he instantly puts everyone at ease—basically the opposite of the many more prickly BJP kingpins. On the explosive subject of sectarian relations, the chat among Chouhan and his aides was all about ‘HM’—a friendly acronym for Hindu–Muslim that captured the spirit of relations here in MP, at least as Chouhan’s circle saw it.
We followed Chouhan to a rally in the temple town of Ujjain, 200 kilometres east of Bhopal, and found roads that were all dirt and bumps only a decade earlier now paved and smooth. Like Modi, Chouhan was one of the new generation chief ministers pushing development as a priority. And like Gujarat, Madhya Pradesh was enjoying a very high growth rate in the agriculture sector—always a huge boon to political leaders, given the preponderance of votes in rural areas.
Unlike Modi, however, Chouhan was also spending the tax revenue generated by rapid growth to launch all manner of new populist welfare schemes. And on the campaign trail, he spoke mainly of the schemes; subsidized rice at 1 rupee per kilo, economic and health support for pregnant women and national savings certificates for women who have a girl child. Chouhan, among many candidates, appeared to have taken a lesson from Naidu’s defeat: development is not enough to win elections, so best to launch welfare schemes as well.
Right outside Ujjain we ran into a rally for Bharti, now a fringe player. After being forced out as chief minister, Bharti had tangled with the BJP bosses and broken away to form her own party. Here in Ujjain she was campaigning with the RSS activist and fellow ideologue K.N. Govindacharya, who had been expelled from the BJP in 2000 after saying that Vajpayee was ‘just a mask’ and Advani was the party’s real, more openly conservative face. Together they drew a desultory crowd of a few hundred, which seemed unmoved by their virulent attacks on the BJP. Bharti asked voters to reward her for her tireless campaign, pointing to her sun-darkened skin and telling the crowd: ‘Look what the BJP has made of me.’
After the crowd had dispersed we spoke to Bharti and Govindacharya by the roadside, and he blamed Vajpayee for the current ‘economic mess’. Since the economy continued to grow at a healthy 8 per cent with low inflation long after Vajpayee had left office, Govindacharya was talking about morals, not results: he complained that Vajpayee had welcomed foreign investment, promoting a business environment in which ‘crass consumerism’ was allowed to flourish.
When Venu asked him about the socialist and anti-foreign economic agenda of the RSS, which seemed so far to the left of BJP leaders like Vajpayee or especially Modi, who was busily courting multinational investors, Govindacharya said: ‘I regard anyone in genuine pursuit of truth and knowledge as a saint. In this sense I regard Karl Marx as a saint!’
Govindacharya had also turned on Advani, who was now the likely BJP prime ministerial candidate in the 2009 general elections. Advani had long since softened his tone on Muslims, even lavishing praise on the founder of Pakistan, Muhammad Ali Jinnah, on a 2005 visit to Islamabad. This shift towards the tolerant centre appalled Govindacharya, who told us that Advani was trading the politics of ‘conviction’ for ‘convenience’, and that he symbolized the lack of talent in BJP ranks. He even claimed that Modi was not treating Hindus respectfully, saying that the Gujarat chief minister had demolished not only mosques but also Hindu temples to make room for new roads.
From these conversations on the conservative fringe we moved on to MP’s most populous city, Indore, whose residents seemed immersed in local rivalry with Bhopal, saying their food was better, their water superior and their universities more impressive. Sometimes called ‘mini-Mumbai’ for its strong business culture, we had a choice of nice hotels and, as luck would have it, booked the same one as Advani, the Landmark Fortune.
We dined with Advani that night, and found him anything but the fearsome ideologue. At eighty-one, he came across as a friendly and personable family man—he was travelling with his daughter Pratibha. Tall and thin, he was remarkably fit compared to most Delhi-based politicians, who have been known to celebrate victories by stuffing each other’s mouths with ladoos. ‘How come you still have such a radiant face?’ asked Simran, inspiring a brief talk from Advani on the benefits of long walks every morning, milk every night, and a vegetarian, oil-free diet—home-cooked whenever possible. This night out, he ordered nothing but warm milk and kesar (saffron), the Kashmiri herb known for its medicinal qualities.
Far from playing the cocksure RSS-trained firebrand, Advani admitted that in 2004 he and the party had made a crucial mistake by campaigning under the ‘India Shining’ slogan, which opened them up to ridicule as grandees out of touch with the tens of millions of voters struggling just to get by. He allowed, however, that during Manmohan Singh’s reign as prime minister, the Congress had exposed itself to a similar backlash, since newspapers were full of breathless reports of new millionaires and billionaires emerging from the economic boom—even as more Indians fell below the poverty line. At the time, academics were vigorously debating whether the ranks of the impoverished were growing or shrinking, but Advani was clearly right about the popular perception that wealth was concentrating at the top.
We were left with the impression of an adept party organizer with surprising charm, remarkable personal discipline, and one big blind spot. Advani seemed certain that the growing backlash against Singh, and the culture of wealth and cronyism flourishing in Delhi and Mumbai, would propel him into the prime minister’s office soon. He discussed at length his future cabinet, running through the names he was considering for posts like finance and defence.
We had seen Advani campaigning outside Indore, and couldn’t help thinking he was getting ahead of himself. His dry performance, in a voice as rasping and stern as when we first saw him back in 1998, reinforced our sense that he lacked the mass appeal of a Vajpayee. There was reason to wonder whether he could survive the growing challenge from another master public performer like Narendra Modi.
There was also the immediate obstacle at hand. Madhya Pradesh was one of four states, along with Chhattisgarh, Delhi and Rajasthan, going to the polls, and Advani seemed to assume that the BJP was poised to sweep all four, building momentum for the general elections in 2009. The morning after our dinner with Advani we headed north into Rajasthan, which proved yet again how dramatically political players and issues change from state to state.
19
‘The Super Chief Minister’
State Assembly Elections, Rajasthan, November 2008
Rajasthan was another large state in the Hindi heartland with a moderate and development-focused BJP chief minister, but the similarities with MP ended there. The Rajasthan state economy was growing at a faster pace, 9 per cent, yet the mood of voters was much darker, owing in large part to reports of corruption under Chief Minister Vasundhara Raje and her ‘Super Chief Minister’, the well-connected businessman Lalit Modi.
Some voters had glowing things to say about Raje, praising her government for promoting economic growth, improving the roads, applying fresh coats of paint and installing night lights that had transformed many of the state’s forts and palaces into tourist attractions of European quality. Many saw Raje—the first female chief minister of Rajasthan—as a living embodiment of social progress. They were impressed that a woman with her regal lineage had shown a genuine knack for connecting with voters, whether in cities or poor towns. Despite some grumbling inside her camp about how Raje could be a ‘maharani’ or queen in dealing with staff, most voters seemed favourably impressed. Students told us they liked her stylish saris and fashion sense.
Behind all this, however, was the drumbeat of reports and rumours about how Raje had handed over much of the decision-making authority in her administration to Lalit Modi (who is no relation to Narendra Modi). A flamboyant real estate developer and entrepreneur, Lalit Modi had just launched the Indian Premier League, a fast-paced cricket tournament. He had established himself as a fixture in the gossip pages, living larger than life, travelling with an entourage, constantly surrounded by famous industrialists and Bollywood stars. Through his family ties to Raje he had risen to place of high influence behind her throne, which is how he earned the unofficial title of ‘Super Chief Minister’.
Modi was, however, just an extreme case of a classic type, the connected private businessman, and the conversations in our Innovas turned to how these characters thrive in India. The fact that India does not provide public funding for elections not only forces candidates to turn their campaigns into a private business, it also puts pressure on them to keep raising funds once in office. They need to recover the investment made to win the last election, and start putting money away to hold on to power in the next one. The private businessmen they tap for campaign funds can morph into permanent shadow ministers, in charge of raising funds in return for favours and privilege. Lalit Modi was only one example of a type we had seen before, including the Samajwadi Party’s Amar Singh in Uttar Pradesh, and would see many times more.
When political funding is flowing as cash in suitcases, money intended for the party treasury can easily find its way into private accounts. Allegations of corruption against seated leaders tend to stick, not only because there is often an element of truth to them. Voters realize that every politician who wants to win has to raise more money than the election rules allow, and thus is likely stashing funds somewhere. There are few 100 per cent clean politicians: the cleaner ones are those who spend hidden funds on the party and the campaign, the dirtier ones put it in their own pockets for personal use.
Often, challengers need not bother with the hard work of developing an alternative policy agenda; all they need to do is sit and wait for the corruption allegations to come out, or make some up. If the candidate has been pocketing party funds, the leaks often come from disgruntled party insiders, and are timed to inflict maximum damage.
In Rajasthan, the challengers were having a particularly good time watching Raje try to explain away the influence she appeared to have handed to a character like Lalit Modi.12 He had established a brashly imperious reputation in a past role as head of the Rajasthan Cricket Association, when he would walk around Jaipur’s Sawai Mansingh stadium expelling rivals and random others. At a 2005 match between India and Sri Lanka, Modi had walked up to me without a word and grabbed the ID hanging from my neck, checking to see that I had the right ticket for the VIP box.
Though he was based in Mumbai, Lalit Modi was said to operate in Rajasthan from the presidential suite of the Rambagh Palace hotel where, depending on various reports, state ministers would line up to seek favours, or to receive orders.13 All Raje’s pluses as a pioneering woman with a common touch and strong development record were dimmed by opposition attacks on the rise of Lalit Modi as an ‘extraconstitutional authority’ in her government.
Since we had left Madhya Pradesh, our companion Sanjeev, who has deep roots in Rajasthan, had been working the phones, trying to arrange a meeting with Raje’s leading rival, Ashok Gehlot, the former chief minister whose defeat had stunned us five years earlier. Gehlot had told Sanjeev he was willing to wait a bit after his coming rally in the Rajasthan city of Chittorgarh, if we could traverse the 325 kilometres from Indore in reasonable time.
The highways on the MP side of the border proved nearly impassable. Construction work had turned our route into a maze of towering gravel piles and torn-up sections of concrete. Just outside Nagda, an ancient city that had flowered into an industrial centre and railway junction, we took a wrong turn somewhere in the construction labyrinth and got lost for four hours. Getting lost was nothing new, but this detour set a new low.
At one point we found ourselves pulled off on the dusty roadside, maps spread out on the hood of an Innova, all gathered around trying to figure out where we were. The trip turned into a fourteen-hour marathon—a dolphin could have swam the distance to Chittorgarh just as fast—and we arrived long past the point when Gehlot had had to move on. Checking into the sixteenth-century Bassi Fort Palace, built by a scion of the local Sisodia dynasty and later converted into a hotel, it was run by a Rajput couple so hospitable it was almost worth getting lost to meet them. Some in our crew said they found the palace’s desolate setting and dimly lit halls strangely charming, thanks perhaps to the warmth of our hosts, as if we had stumbled onto the set of the Bollywood comic-horror classic, Bhoot Bangla, or Haunted Mansion.
