Panickanadarkudieruppu is a small village in Tuticorin district of Tamil Nadu.

It is a part of the Tiruchendur assembly constituency. There was a festive air in the village in the morning.

May 8, 2006, was voting day. You could hear the village ladies calling to each other. "Akka (elder sister) when are you going to vote. Take me with you." None of the ladies went alone to vote even though the polling booth was in the village school.

At 9 am there was a long line of voters inside the booth. One old lady did not know how to vote. She could not see the buttons, she said. Another aggressive young lady just went to the machine and pressed her hand on it. The polling officer was shocked.

Five minutes later another old lady refused to touch the blue button. Again the aggressive lady rushed to help her. This time the polling officer was faster. She ran to first block the helper. "You go stand in line, we are here to help," she said. She then helped push the button. In both cases, no one bothered to ask the voter whom she wanted to vote for.

A mobile phone rang. Ponsunder, who is a member of the Dravida Munnetra Kazhagam party and polling agent for the candidate, started talking on the phone right inside the booth. No one knew that it is illegal to use your phone inside the booth. He kept talking loudly as he left the booth.

On the road leading to the polling station, four cars of the ruling party kept bringing in voters. There were two white lines drawn across the road on either side of the booth. You are not allowed to drive cars beyond this Lakshman Rekha. The cars dutifully stopped outside this line.

Bringing voters to the polling booth might be a crime in the cities. In the villages, it’s considered a help to voters particularly the old ones.

Kasiammal admitted that she got Rs 50 to vote. Shivan said that he was promised Rs 150 for three votes. For his wife, his mother and himself. "I have not got the money yet," he complained. Prabhakaran, who was supposed to give the money, said, "I won’t give it to him, he will drink it up, I will give it to his wife."

Suddenly the sky darkened and it came pouring down. The rain lasted for 45 minutes. People in the booth stayed inside and those at home stayed there. People started coming in only after the summer storm subsided.

Murugesapandian, the village panchayat vice president, came in complaining. "This rain and wind has knocked down a few banana plants." Everyone else was happy with the rain that brought a respite from the heat wave.

Kaliyugapandian came to vote with his wife and daughter. As he too had a sight problem he told his daughter to vote for him. Nobody objected.

At 4 pm in one booth only 245 votes had been cast out of a total of 643 votes.

Gnanadurai, a voting agent, said, "What to do? Most of our villagers are in the cities." A boy sitting under a tree was very sad. He was saying, "In the past we could find people to vote for these un-polled votes, this election that’s not possible, proof of identity is a must." The boy was 18 years old. You wonder how many elections he has seen.

Mariammal came to vote looking very dirty. She was returning when another lady asked her if she had had a bath. "I came straight from the fields to vote. They asked me for my Id Card and voting slip, nobody asked if I had had a bath," was the reply.

The head constable from the neighbouring police station was very happy. "This is such a peaceful village. It’s a pleasure to be on duty here," he exclaimed.

While in one booth there was no activity, in another booth there was a line till 5 pm. Madasamy explained that this particular booth catered to an area of field workers. They had all come after going to work in the morning. The polling officer issued slips to all those who were already inside the booth and told the cops not to allow anyone else in as it was 5 pm.

At dusk the villagers were discussing how much money had been given. The village priest said that they had come to his house the night before, but he had refused their money. Most said that they had got Rs 50.

Vijaya, who belongs to a self help group, said that her whole group had got a round amount. When they divided that, each got Rs 110.

Nobody admitted whether they had voted for the party they accepted money from. "That’s a secret," they said with a knowing smile.

-- Ganesh Nadar

The first thing I wanted to find out after reaching Kancheepuram was whether the arrest of the Sankaracharya had any effect on the electorate of Kancheepuram.

We decided to go inside the Mutt first. After depositing the cameras, mobile phones etc, at the counter, we went inside. The Mutt was totally desolate with not a single visitor. Both the Sankaracharays were at the Kalavai Mutt, and so the Kanchi Mutt was devoid of any visitors, an old man told us. We saw a couple more old men there reading books.

Once outside the Mutt, I decided to go to a tailoring shop which was located opposite the Mutt. The moment the man inside the shop saw me entering, he pointed his finger at me and shouted, ‘get out.. just get out.’ I was so shocked by this rebuke that I jumped out. ‘How dare you come to my shop in chappals?’ he shouted again. As I was walking back, feeling humiliated, the man shouted, ‘What do you want?’ I walked away without answering his question.

What a way to start my day in Kancheepuram! I thought.

I moved to the next shop but stood outside safely as I did not want to be insulted once again. When I asked him whether the Sankaracharya’s arrest would have any impact on the elections, he said, “I have no idea. We don’t discuss politics here.’ But he was polite. I thanked God for that.

A group of people waiting for the bus to come, also had the same reaction; that they don’t know anything about politics.

When I saw several autos waiting in a corner, we walked towards them. “Where do you want to go?” They surrounded us. “Yes, I would like to go and see the weavers’ colony but we have a vehicle.

Slowly, I started a conversation with them and then asked about the Sankaracharya. The moment they heard the word Sankaracharya, they clammed up. I had always found that auto drivers were the most willing and enthusiastic ones to talk about local politics but these people were so different. ‘Sorry, madam. We don’t know anything about that. We don’t know politics.’ They withdrew from the scene.

That was when a man came forward offering to take us to the weavers’ colony. He was Kamal; he worked as an agent for a private silk shop. As we moved away from the Mutt, he said, “It is a very sensitive issue here. If you had asked someone on some other road, they would have answered but you were standing right next to the Mutt.’

But he added that the arrest of the Sankaracharya is not an issue at all in Kancheepuram. “The majority of the population here are non-Brahmins, and since they have nothing to do with the Mutt, they are simply not bothered. The Mutt never encouraged non-Brahmins to go anywhere near them too. Naturally, people are least interested in the affairs of the Mutt.’

Instead of the weavers’ colony, he then took us to a shop and said, ‘please come and see what the shop has.” But I had to politely decline the offer, ‘I am very Sorry. I have not planned any shopping,’ He was terribly disappointed because unless I visited the shop, he would not get any commission from the shop.

My village is in Tuticorin district of Tamil Nadu, about 35 km from Tuticorin town. I decided to go to Sivakasi to see the assembly election trend there. So I got into a bus (1) to Tuticorin. I reached the old bus-stand and was very happy to see a bus with the board saying Sivakasi.

I got in (2) and the conductor asked me where I wanted to go. When I told him, he said this bus would leave the new bus stand after an hour so I should go in an earlier bus.

So I got down and boarded a bus (3) to Kovilpatti as there was no direct bus for me. From Kovilpatti I took another bus (4) to Sattur. It takes 30 minutes from Kovilpatti to Sattur. Imagine my shock when after 10 minutes the bus halted at a restaurant for a ‘20 minutes refreshment break’. There were six other buses halted there. I got into one (5) leaving for Sattur.

From Sattur I got a bus to Sivakasi (6).

After finishing my work there I saw a bus (7) leaving for Tuticorin. A feeling of déjà vu when the conductor said it was better I bought a ticket for Sattur as there would be a 25 minute halt there. I did not argue. I boarded (8) another bus from Sattur to Tuticorin.

This one took me to the new bus stand there and I boarded a mini bus (9) to the old bus stand. There was no bus to my village but there was one (10) to Eral which is on the way. From Eral I got another mini bus (11) to Kurumbur. And one more mini bus (12) to my village. 

I was very happy. I had not waited even for one bus. I had been on the move throughout and covered 270 km.

--  Ganesh Nadar

West Bengal Chief Minister Buddhadeb Bhattacharya is known to be an honest, no frills man. But even then, his affidavit to the Election Commission about assets held, as cited by the Indian Express, is bound to raise a few eyebrows. It says he doesn't have a rupee of cash, no deposits, savings etc. Not even a bank account!

Kolkata woke up to the news that Maoist posters had appeared late in the night on the walls of the famous Coffee House on College Street and the PresidenCy College.

The posters said, 'Keep the war alive, boycott the votes.'

Four districts of West Bengal are voting today in the second of the five-phase assembly elections.

Coffee House was once famous as the seat of Bengali intellectualism, and Presidency College saw many of its students joining the Naxalbari Movement in the early 1970s.

The police have torn down the posters, the reports said.

On Friday, there were unconfirmed reports of Maoist posters appearing in West Bengal Chief Minister Buddhadev Bhattacharya's Jadavpur assembly constituency's Ajaynagar area. The East Jadavpur police station officials said they had no such reports.

With dialogues like "Marbo ekhaney, porbi shoja shoshaney" [I will hit you here, you will fall straight in the crematorium], the trailers of Mithun 'Disco Dancer' Chakraborty’s newest Bengali movie can make you double up with laughter.

But the Election Commission, which is leaving no stone unturned to ensure the polls in West Bengal are free and fair, is not amused.

Because Mithunda’s new film is called MLA Fatakeshto, and the posters say, 'Vote for MLA Fatakeshto'.

In a bid to capitalise on the poll fever that West Bengal is firmly in the grip of, the makers of the film have timed the release of the film to coincide with the state elections. The story is about a gangster who turns politician.

One Election Commission observer -- from another state -- could not get the joke, and ordered the removal of the posters of the film from Itindaghat in North 24 Pargana district.

Fatakeshto literally means 'Broken Keshto' (Keshto is a common rural Bengali name). There was a legendary underworld operative in Bengal by the name of Fatakeshto, and there is also a very famous Kali Puja in north Kolkata which is called Fatakeshto’s Kali Puja, after the rather Robin Hood-esque gangster.

Many Bengali criminals have names like, say, 'Kata' Tapan (Severed Tapan) –- which might indicate that the person in question had his hand or a finger or some part of his anatomy chopped off in a gang war or while making a peto, (homemade bomb).

Forget Maoists, hail can kill you here

Nature has a way of cutting you down to size. Of saying, ‘you might think otherwise, but I am the boss.’

There was some time left for West Bengal Chief Minister Buddhadev Bhattacharya’s election rally in Purulia on April 13. And we heard Mamata Banerjee was also addressing a meeting in Hura, 32 km from the district headquarter town of Purulia. We set off in our car: Moinuddin Ali Kurkaile, 20 -- who refuses to answer to any name but Rahul -- and who smashed his education against the Class X barrier and is now a driver by profession; Baishampayan Saha, also 20, who looks exactly like Jimi Hendrix -- complete with an Afro and a French cut – and is a freelance photographer; and me.

When we got there at about 3:15, we were told ‘Didi’ would arrive at 7 pm. So we headed back, looking for a place to stay. When we set out from Purulia, the vast arid lands of Purulia were being slow-baked in the biggest microwave there ever was.

A storm arrived out of nowhere, and within a couple of minutes we had to get off the road. The water was lashing against the windscreen like a thick sheet and you couldn’t see anything.

Then began a hailstorm. Hails as big as bricks. It was like being inside a building being demolished. We were stunned. Too stunned to react. Rahul -- who has a knack of making you double up with laughter with comments like: “These people (of Purulia) don’t get water to drink but why do they polish their cows with muddy water all the time?” -- tried to put the side mirror inside. A small hailstone ricocheted off the mirror and hit his finger, which swelled up instantly.

You don’t need rocket science to realise what would have happened to us if we got outside.

The storm intensified. The hailstones got bigger. The front window cracked and the crack was widening with every fresh salvo from what seemed like an AK-47 loaded with hailstones. Rahul drove the car down from the road bang into a little dune to protect the front window from hail.

And then, just as I sent an SMS to office requesting a nice obit, it was over. The storm had gone just as suddenly as it arrived. All that was left were pock marks all over our Tata Sumo (thank god it wasn’t a Maruti 800), and a surrealistic landscape of white, ice-like hails melting and giving off wisps of vapour.

All three of us think a 20-minute deadly hailstorm in the middle of nowhere in drought prone Purulia is proof enough that nature is the boss.

A snapshot from from poll-bound Purulia. A CPI-M party old-timer is flaunting his red stripes: "I have Lenin's voice and Netaji Subhas Chandra's voice on tape."

Outside his house, in the dirstrict headquarter town of a state ruled for 29 years by his party, a human snake, with stubs for legs and wrapped in a gunny bag, is slithering across the street, begging.

There is no way you can tell whether it is a man or a woman. You see the flies buzzing around festering wounds, you see slits for eyes and a rasping voice: Maa, duto chal de ma. (Give me some rice, mother)

The Left will paint Bengal red, says this CNN-IBN- The Hindu pre-poll survey.
The survey only proves that the Left knew what it was talking and was not one bit arrogant when it said it will emulate its 1987 sweep!

An NDTV story on the plight of farmers in Kerala. It says even though these workers have played a major role in strengthening the commies, they continue to remain in a pathetic condition.