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Journalism of Courage
The counting of votes is on, and the first results are already trickling in. Across the nation psephologists pontificate, analysts arrive at bewilderingly diverse conclusions from identical data, and assorted academics, political observers and journalists join in severely criticising the electorate for not behaving according to their predictions. And, an ancient, battered lorry rolls up a dusty track leading to the dry river-bed, lurching with a snort of relief to a halt amidst huge banks of sand.
Three men wait, shovels in hand. The driver backs the vehicle and ploughs into one of the sand dunes; and then two of them leap onto the hillock and proceed to scoop mounds of the grey-white material into the truck. The third man 8212; he cannot be a day older than 16 8212; stands in the truck and spreads the fine sand as evenly as possible about the pitted wooden floor. The driver, meanwhile, twiddles with a knob on the dash-board, muttering imprecations, till a dreadful cacophony erupts from the dusty loudspeakerabove his grizzled head. He has found the local radio station.
At length the job is done. The labourers pause at an unspoken signal, fling their shovels down, wipe their streaming brows and flop down on the sand next to the driver. Soon they must depart for the great construction lots on the western outskirts of the City; but there is still time to stretch one8217;s aching limbs awhile, perhaps even smoke a companionable beedi.
The flies drone, the sun sinks lower.The young labourer sits up and listens intently to the news broadcast. And then he turns to the driver. 8220;So, Kaka, will we now have a new ruler?8221; he inquires. The driver removes the beedi from his mouth, hacks and spits at the dog but misses by several inches. 8220;It won8217;t make a difference to you, will it?8221; he remarks. The others chuckle, but the youngster is persistent.
8220;In our jhuggi, he begins hesitantly, 8220;they say things will soon change for the better. That we will all soon have pucca houses8230;8221;
Arre gadhe! the driver exclaims exasperatedly. 8220;Don8217;t you see that this is all a natak? Look8221;, he continues in a kindlier tone, 8220;the fate of poor people is akin to that of the river: doomed to follow the same path forever, crushing the rocks into sand and sinking ever lower. And just as politicians come for their votes, so too men come to the river to haul away the sand; they mix the sand with lime and cement and make buildings and bungalows so that the rich may live in comfort.8221;
Hepauses, his rheumy eyes far away. 8220;Yet in time the desert winds will blow, hot as a sigri, and the great walls and roofs will crack and fissure. And than the rains will beat upon the edifices, and this happens again and again, year after year, till slowly but surely the sands are washed away into the gutters and drains, to find their way eventually back to the river. And then again the minds of the rich will turn to the river and upon a monsoon the river will breach its banks, and when it recedes there the sand will be again8230;8221;
In a moment the lorry roars off in a cloud of dust. A stray breeze brings the faint voice of the news-broadcaster, announcing that the seasoned old bandicoot has won.
