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Revenge of The Shroud

It had to happen: We went to Bhor to experience what Sonia Gandhi was all about. Frankly, we'd have been quite content not to, but for our cherished colleague (whom we'd promised to turn into a pucca fundie and who's now more-fundier-than-thou), who wrote that columnists are but "remix artists." Now, that cut to the quick; our blue blood surged. So there we found ourselves travelling in a shock-absorber-less four-wheel-drive at the unholy hour of 5 am, a time when intellectuals like us, when not otherwise engaged, are surfing XXX sites for inspiration. Suffice to say, we got our jollies from the state of the road: It took us nearly 8 hours, as against the expected 5.

Nearing Bhor, we were caught in a mile-long traffic-jam for over an hour. We got down to investigate (we had been instructed that that would be part of our job). A well-dressed, mobile-phone-toting man was running helter-skelter and shouting at everyone to clear the cars "IMMEDIATELY". Like, anyone could. This rocket-scientist was Shekhar Devrurkar, Suresh Kalmadi's PA. It seems, Kalmadi -- chief bozo of the Congress in Maharashtra -- was stuck in his car much, much behind us. We felt consoled. There is a God. Even if it be a certain wily politician, who, we think, caused the jam by parking two cars in the middle of the narrow road. You see, no one knew whom they belonged to. Strange, no, cars parked in the countryside?

The Conggies had given us (us!) a VVIP parking-lot sticker, saving us a 2 km march from the outskirts of Bhor to the grounds. At which point, we must remark on the Congress culture: its workers are extremely helpful, polite, radically obliging, gracious, friendly and ever-smiling. In fact, everything that the Sangh Parivar is not -- and never has been. We realise now, why the BJP gets bad press: Its kaaryakartas *ask* for it. Even from us.

We alit outside the grounds. After squishing through ankle-deep mud, falling flat twice, having our brolly upturned thrice, wet to the bra-strap and cutting a miserable figure -- all drawing loud merriment from the entertainment-starved crowd, and sympathy from cops who waived off checking our pass -- we took position behind the phalanx of the cameramen: They stood on tables with their brollies and equipment and thus provided us cover from the wind and rain. We would pinch a leg now and then to see through to the stage. There were times we nearly bit at a calf (we'd had nothing since dinner). In short, it was easily the second-worst experience of our young life. The worst will go in our inevitable novel, but this chapter, you bet, is the Revenge of the Shroud.

We are pleased to report that the turn-out, between 30 and 40 thousand, did not impress us. It's due to our past: We're habituated to seeing lakh-strong crowds which pay to hear our dear mater. And we were informed by a farmer that they are paid between Rs 50 and 100 to hear politicians. Some reporters got kittens over the rural folk "braving the spells of rain" while waiting for the Shroud, who arrived over two hours late. We have news for them: During monsoons, villeins spend their days in paddy fields in incessant heavy rain. And maawle -- the people of this region, who once formed the rank and file of Chhatrapati Shivaji's forces -- are a dependable lot: If paid, they would stay, you can be sure.

The helicopter whirred in at 2.30 pm; the band, inscrutably, struck up Ae mere vatan ke logon... (the aunt must have been tossed and turned in her sureil bed). Then came on stage the Shroud, aptly attired in a peacock-blue Narayanpethi, S B Chavan, B Prataprao (that's his full name in this column) and a bozo called Anantrao Thopte, the host of this affair. One 10-second long "1-minute Shraddhanjali" for the fallen at Kargil, and Thopte took off on the most OTT speech we've ever heard: He spoke of Swarajya -- self-rule -- while beaming at the Firang. He spoke of Swami-Bhakti and gazed devotedly at the Italian. And he called the Maratha Strongman "Sharadji Pisaal" -- a reference to Suryaji Pisaal, a rank traitor to Shivaji Maharaj. Ergo, Sonia = Shivaji...

But we didn't vomit. Yet. That happened when historian and Shivaji-specialist Babasaheb Purandare -- at whose very knees we learnt about Shiv-shahi -- presented the Shroud a sword as a Marathyaanche Prateek: a symbol of Maratha loyalty. Is NOTHING sacred? Another idol bites the dust.

At 3.10 pm, Sonia spoke -- in Marathi. We must say, it was better than her Hindi: Madhav Scindia must be a more, er, persuasive tutor than Mani Shankar. After 3 sentences on "Sheeevaji", she went into Hindi, which, BTW, is improving. But she can't do much about her "Kaangress Paarti" -- the 'T' in "party" being pronounced as in the Hindi 'tum' (you). The hard 'T' is difficult for Italians, you know.

Anyway, her speech was exactly the same as the one she parroted in Varanasi, with the addition of some extraordinary illuminations on Sheeevaji: "Unho-ne Daliton ke liye sangharsh kiya." Huh??! Yes, she went on about the similarities of the life and times of Chhatrapati and -- Babasaheb Ambedkar. We got the message.

But did the people? Well, from what we could see, a too-large number were uniformed school-children (present voters?). They, and even the adults, were all staring at the other stage, where the colourful music band was perched. I think they just wanted some entertainment.

The Shroud, meanwhile, was blasting away at the Beej, the Sena and the Strongman, without naming them, of course. Then she said, "Maujood haalaat badal sakte hain," and we wondered: WHAT are these Ghaats going to understand?? We know them, you see. As does Balasaheb. As does Mr Pawar. Whereas, the Shroud speaks AT the people, not TO them.

Good. She wound it up at 3.20 pm -- 15 minutes flat. Jai Hind. Great Sonia rally, from our point of view. Hope they all are like this.

On the way back -- after two more falls; rain; broken brolly; mud squishing inside our shoes -- we were just looking out of the rain-splattered window and ruminating over the Sonia factor. But slowly, automatically, we stopped thinking -- the landscape was so gorgeously, absolutely, utterly beautiful. It always is in the monsoons. There's something about the vibrant-green rice saplings, a colour so vivid, so neon, that each blade insinuates itself into your consciousness like a blade of steel so sharp that you don't feel the cut at first. And then it stings and arouses all that you thought you'd crushed... Nature, it's lethal. Nature, it dwarfs: "we" became nothing...

I saw the wind blow through the paddy fields, rippling the saplings like a hand sensuously ruffling the fur of a Persian cat. I saw the silver waterfalls -- hundreds and hundreds of them -- crashing down the magnificent projections of Bhor Ghat. I noticed the raindrops cradled in leaves like little crystals in a green velvet case. I smelt the Taambdi Maati, the red soil of this land. MY land. The land of my father, and his father, and his...

Once you traverse the Khandala or the Bhor Ghat of the Sayahdri range, you enter what the Mughals called the Maratha Dakkhan... It isn't like my maternal bhoomi, Goa. There, palm trees sway like the teasing walk of a fisherwoman, the sea glides in and out smoothing sandy undulations; life is softer, gentler; it has an island pace and time; it has a picture-perfectness. But the land of the Maawlas is a Raangda Pradesh -- with a rough, virile, manly beauty. It's about plains and rocks bordering erect mountains, and it comes alive with knock-out charm only once in a while, when it mates with the rain; at all other times, it hides its emotions... I never could decide which I prefer. Now, I believe: Western Maharashtra.

And I thought, when there's so much beauty in my land, what the HELL am I doing with politics? The ugliness of it all repels me: The picture from the rally, of two wrinkled old women sheltering under a plastic sheet, looking plaintively at the musicians, stays with me. The happenings over the last two months have nauseated me. Arguments on politics have begun to revolt me. Political-minded people are making me sick. In truth, *I* repel me. Maybe my life has been brewing towards this -- it may be why I bullied the sainted editor into giving me an "assignment". But it yet has to reach a stage when I repel me so much that sustenance and career will mean nothing. When I really can throw it all away without a look back. Let's see what life holds in store...

Varsha Bhosle