Shashi Warrier | For ‘pure’ politics, let ’em eat cake!

One Sunday last month I was relaxing with a book after my monthly visit to the barbershop when the doorbell rang. On the doorstep stood my ex-professor friend Raghavan, who quit teaching and moved to a market research outfit some months ago. I wasn’t expecting him because his new job was based in Bangalore. “I’m here to meet some clients,” he explained. “I thought I’d drop in.” He seemed to be happier and younger and perhaps wealthier because he was carrying a bottle of my favourite scotch. “Just to help us catch up,” he added.

“My wife is out,” I said apologetically. “We’ll have to manage with snacks in packs.”

“Don’t worry about that!” Raghavan said, brandishing the bottle. “The essentials are here.”

Even before we sat down the doorbell rang again. This time it was Murthy, the political consultant. That was an even bigger surprise, because elections were only about a month away, and this was his busiest period in five years. “I thought I’d take a break,” he explained. “Have a drink with an old friend and talk about anything but work.” Murthy’s nose for scotch was as good as ever, I thought as I led him in, thankful that Raghavan and he were friends, so neither would mind sharing the scotch.

Just as I’d got them settled, the bell rang yet again. This visitor was a widower in his eighties, a dignified old gentleman, Krishna, who lives alone and looks for company only when he’s unbearably lonely. He’s a good listener, and tends to nurse a single drink through a session. I led him in and poured him one, and he settled down quietly in a corner. He offers an opinion very rarely, and, when he does, I listen to him carefully.

There was a lull in the conversation after the preliminaries and I brought up the conversation I’d overheard at the barbershop because it was weighing on my mind. “I just got my hair cut,” I said, “and the three men waiting for their turn were talking about the coming elections.”

Both Murthy and Raghavan asked, together, “What did they say?”

“They discussed the ‘incentives’ different parties are offering voters,” I replied.

“What did they say about the incentives?” asked Murthy.

“They complained,” I said. “Last time around, they were offered a little cardboard box containing some cash, a small bottle of booze, a portion of chicken biriyani, and a packet of peanuts. Everything that most men require for a little celebration. And some women.”

“So what were they complaining about?” asked Murthy.

“One of them is a vegetarian,” I said. “He didn’t like the idea of drinking from a bottle of booze that had shared a box with a packet of chicken biriyani.”

“Ah!” said Krishna, smiling. “A ‘pure’ vegetarian!”

“We should take care of their needs,” said Murthy. “So they should have a choice between vegetarian and non-vegetarian.”

“That’s not all,” I said. “One of them was complaining that he doesn’t drink. He doesn’t like the thought of eating anything that’s been touching a bottle of booze.”

 “I see!” said Krishna. “What you might call a ‘pure’ teetotaller, since there are pure vegetarians... I wonder what other kinds of purity there are.”

“A fourth man walked in before the barber was done with me,” I said. “He said he was vegetarian and teetotal..,”

“A ‘pure vegetotaller’, then,” said Krishna.

Raghavan butted in earnestly. “You need some market research here,” he told Murthy. “How else will you know what exactly to deliver?”

“We can deliver cash,” Murthy said. “No one objects to that. Fewer people involved, no complications with suppliers and late deliveries, and it won’t spoil in the heat.”

“Yes,” said Raghavan, “but it’s soulless! No human touch. Food and drink are very close to the heart. Sharing food with someone is connecting with them at a fundamental level.”

“You mean it’s a regular transaction unless there’s a celebration after,” said Murthy.

“Yes,” replied Raghavan. “They want to vote for you but they don’t want to feel they’re selling you their vote. They want to celebrate with you. The question is, what do they need for their celebrations, and what can you give them without too much expense, trouble, or risk?”

“Exactly,” Murthy said. “It’s got to be food and drink... Would vouchers do?”

“Of course not!” said Raghavan. “Where will villagers exchange vouchers? That’s too complicated.”

“Right,” said Murthy. “So we have four combinations. Chicken and liquor, chicken and no liquor, liquor and no chicken, and no liquor and no chicken. What’s it going to cost, a survey to find out how many of each, and how quickly can you deliver the results?”

“We’ll have to finalise a few things,” Raghavan said. “The questions we’re going to ask, the size of the samples we’ll take, and the locations. It all depends... We’ll have to discuss this in private, with my boss.”

“How soon can you set it up?” asked Murthy.

“In a couple of hours,” replied Raghavan. “If a virtual meeting will do, we can get it done this afternoon.”

“Fine,” said Murthy. “What about the field work?”

“We have plenty of people on tap,” Raghavan said. “We’ll do it fast.”

“Right,” said Murthy, rising. “Let’s get on with it.”

“Fine,” said Raghavan. “We’ll sort it out at my hotel.”

When I got back from seeing them off at the door, Krishna, too, was finishing off the single drink I’d poured him. “You have interesting friends,” he said, rising. “I learnt a lot from that discussion.” He turned to face me at the door. “You know, no one talks about a ‘pure’ candidate any longer. I wonder why.”