(Pune Mirror column): Moist-eyed about Parliament!

I’ve never been much of a follower of the political scene. Voting for me is sheer agony, each time – always, the name missing from the voters’ list, then chasing after local thugs, goons and hoodlums to have your name in place (same story Mumbai, same story Pune). Putting up with their over-paliness since it’s pre-election time, and they’re desperately pretending that they are your humble servants, etc.
On top of it, I’m part of that middle class who - election analysts talk about us, wagging their heads sadly - is becoming increasingly indifferent to voting. No, it’s not that I’m part of the shining Indian middle class that couldn’t be bothered to vote because I’m busy spending money in hyper-malls and infesting Southeast Asian tourist destinations. It’s just that I’m never sure who to vote for. Sometimes I’m doing ini-mini-mina-mo all the way to the voting station. The original ini-mini has other words. Mine goes something like this on voting day, with my 2 minutes of power in my hand: ini mini mina mo, catch a goonda by his toe; if he cries, let him go, ini mini mina mo.
So what I’m saying is, I’m not that most evolved of voters. I’m not your die-hard supporter of any party. I’m always choosing between the lesser of several evils. The dilemma doesn’t end even as I enter the polling booth. Vote for the corrupt but claiming to be non-communal? Or the blatantly communal but claiming to be clean? Or do I vote for the (so far) clean, non-communal but desperately out-of-date? Or end up using up my vote on the naïve-squeaky-clean independent who will never make it? So many options, so little belief or interest – is my problem.
This detached observer kind of mode of mine (elegant phrase for being a cynic and a not terribly bright one) also means that I rarely or never watch political debates on smart channels, and the Lok Sabha on its very own channel. One, because the charms of watching people shouting each other down and one moderator bleating for all to please be quiet are kind of lost on me. Some people watch it all with rapt attention that I reserve only for the stand up comic programs. Not me. Already a cynic, I become a panicky and upset cynic when I watch Parliament or political debates. I begin to feel a) if someone can’t stop shouting, and talking right over the other person (who is doing the same), he/she is no better than a tantruming toddler. And we all agree on one thing – tantruming toddlers can’t/shouldn’t run nations. b) should people like me have maybe joined this jamboree at some stage, and ‘made a difference’? Both options a and b throw me into a deep funk, and I quickly switch channels to soothing programs like World’s Most Amazing Police Videos and suchlike.
So, to come to my point, usually I would not have watched the trust vote proceedings in Parliament from beginning to end on TV. No. I would have perhaps watched occasional news flashes on the subject, and like I do with cricket, only asked for the end result, if at all – India harli ka jinkli? As it happened, I was in someone’s home at the time, and they were following it closely, ball by ball, MP by MP. The old panic rose within me, as I watched men in high places having to be told repeatedly not to wander around, not to shout, not to approach the Speaker, not to interrupt, to let people speak. Then there was the bundles of rupees brandishing side-show, that almost became the main show. I kept my nose in my book, and looked up only occasionally. How do these guys get anything done? I asked myself for the hundredth time. Just in this way, at the cost of us all, I replied to myself, for the hundredth time.
But, once it was all done, the last 2 minutes of the entire circus made up for it all. An old, lively instrumental version of Vande Mataram was played, and suddenly, like magic, all those avaricious grasping faces turned inward and quiet. The large pompous bodies softened and heads became bowed. Where all this while they were facing in different directions, waving their arms, stamping about angrily, suddenly there was everyone faced in one direction, standing still, with that gorgeous rendition of the song washing over them all, and us all. All of Parliament looked like little kids, good humans, suddenly. We cynics have our sentimental moments too, I suppose.