I am a marked man again

I am marked again! 

In 2019, after exercising my voting rights in rural Bihar, I wrote a blog reflecting on my observations and learnings. Far from the corridors of power, I ended with a hopeful note: "But to have a say with an unbiased mind, not biased by your group loyalties, an uncontrolled choice – not controlled by the undemocratic powers that be, is what we should pray for. A nation that votes with a free mind and will, but freedom undergirded with the desire for justice, liberty, equality, fraternity, and dignity of everyone, as enshrined in our constitution. That the vibrancy of grassroots democracy permeates the corridors of power too! And pray that God will bring in leaders who will facilitate this unbiased uncontrolled vibrancy!"

https://santhoshsramblings.blogspot.com/2019/05/ijust-returned-as-marked-man.html

Much water has flowed under the bridge since then. Today, as I cast my vote in NCT Delhi, close to where the power plays happen, I observed some striking similarities and differences.

The polling station was similar—crowded, hot, and sweaty. The majority of voters were septuagenarians (in their 70s), octogenarians (in their 80s), and nonagenarians (in their 90s), accompanied by their children. Few voters were in their 50s, 60s, or younger, likely due to the early hour (7:30 AM) and the demographics of the residential area.

Many voters carried voting slips with a specific color and emblem, which left me wondering how they obtained them and why I did not. Was I already marked in some way? There was more perceived restlessness here compared to rural Bihar in 2019 (from my fading memory—I might be wrong). People were eager to break the line, citing flights to catch or being in wheelchairs (which was reasonable), while others were unclear about which room to go to, moving from queue to queue with no one to guide them. I wondered why, in this technological era, we still allow such chaos. Is it part of the plan or a callous attitude of "sub chaltha hei"?

Despite the restlessness, there was an eerie silence similar to 2019. People seemed clear about their intentions. Although the colored and emblazoned voting slips were not allowed inside, most voters appeared resolute. Typically, a sense of community emerges as people wait, but here there was no such camaraderie, except among a few acquaintances. Were they voting for the status quo or for change? One could not tell by observing their faces. But the beauty was that people were present!

What were the septuagenarians, octogenarians, and nonagenarians voting for? Were they hoping for a nation where their children and grandchildren could live with freedom, justice, liberty, fraternity, and dignity—or perhaps something else? I believe they voted for the future of their descendants.

One thing was different: the mark on my finger was much lighter than in 2019. Was this a message that nothing is permanent? There is a transience to everything today. Power, power brokers, leaders, and even empires are here one day and gone the next. But our dreams and hopes will endure. Like Tagore says 

“Day by day I float my paper boats one by one down the running stream.
In big black letters I write my name on them and the name of the village where I live.
I hope that someone in some strange land will find them and know who I am.
I load my little boats with shiuli flower from our garden, and hope that these blooms of the dawn will be carried safely to land in the night.

I launch my paper boats and look up into the sky and see the little clouds setting thee white bulging sails.
I know not what playmate of mine in the sky sends them down the air to race with my boats!
When night comes I bury my face in my arms and dream that my paper boats float on and on under the midnight stars.
The fairies of sleep are sailing in them, and the lading in their baskets full of dreams.”

So that tomorrow we can sing with Tagore…

“Where the mind is without fear and the head is held high
Where knowledge is free
Where the world has not been broken up into fragments
By narrow domestic walls
Where words come out from the depth of truth
Where tireless striving stretches its arms towards perfection
Where the clear stream of reason has not lost its way
Into the dreary desert sand of dead habit
Where the mind is led forward by thee
Into ever-widening thought and action
Into that heaven of freedom, my Father, let my country awake”