Swayamsevaks want Sunday brunch with middle-class Pune, many don’t bite

The RSS hasn’t knocked this many doors in Pune since 1989. It claims to have touched base with “79,488 families and 97 opinion makers (out of 2,000) within six days of the rashtra jagran abhiyan since its launch on November 5. The only reluctance for discussion is among the middle class, especially the middle-aged between 35 to 50 years,” RSS secretary Makarand Lele told The Indian Express.

Some Puneites have been willing to shell out a few bucks to read up the Sangh philosophy on how to keep a true Hindu Ghar, how to attain Swadeshi. Interestingly, the book on cow protection is the fastest selling of the 1,100 sets of 15 books.

Cow protection is touted to be a “more important question than swarajya,” and the mahapurush tell Pune why in 20 pages. “A home generously splattered with good old cow dung is exceedingly well protected from atomic radiation…slaughter-houses increase the chances of earthquakes according to Russian research…”

In middle-class Parvatinagar, for instance, where the RSS went a-visiting on Sunday morning, a couple of women who were at home alone hastily switched off the Sunday special on TV to listen to passionate words on the swadeshi church and united Hindus from “Kashmir to Kanyakumari, Bengal to Gujarat to solve all national problems.” Pamphlets were accepted and Bharat Mata pasted without protest.

But it turns out that granddad was a freedom fighter, a former additional commissioner of labour and a Gandhian to boot. The three Sanghis were no match for M.V. Ponkshe and his debate on “fascism and swadeshi.” Voices are raised, the mobile rings often and the trio is stumped but smiling.

Ponkshe flatly refuses to send his grandsons to the shakhas. “I will not send them, but they are free to do as they please.” He denies permission to paste the sticker. Seconds later, his grand-son walks in, a saffron sticker is thrust into his hands and glued on the door as the octogenarian watches quietly.

“The mobile phone is not my own, I have borrowed it for a day,” explains Sunil Shelinkar, a bank employee who devoted his Sunday to spread the Sanghspeak. He confesses that watchmen and dogs can be trying, but “we are persistent, polite and cultured. We always gain entry. In my segment we have pasted stickers on all 10,000 homes, even Muslim and Christian.”

House number five is more gracious. Steaming chai is passed around. One set of books is sold, even as Siddhant Satak of standard four argues with swayamsewak Satish Kulkarni about the neighbourhood shakha. Several vigorous shakes of the head to any suggestion of shakhas. “But I want to watch Small Wonder and Spiderman on cable TV in the evening.”

You could play chor police and kho kho instead, suggests Kulkarni.

Admitting to a 10 per cent rate of no direct contact with families, Lele maintains the “campaign is aimed at ridding the common Sangh sewak of his complex, give him confidence to approach the public.”

Lele is satisfied to recount that the “opinion makers” he has met with will surely remember his appeal to “invite eight to ten elite for an evening cup of tea over Hindutva.”

“Even if our active participants increase by one per cent, it will be a great achievement. Though it would be ideal if people actually came over to the shakhas and picked up the danda instead.”

Finally, it’s 50 homes, two hours. The sticky saffron stamp won’t come off that easy.