I had lost my way in Patiala’s Shatrana area during the 2004 election campaign, and had stopped by these little hutments. Suddenly I was surrounded by a small crowd. “You need a Marasi Sir?” I was being posed the question for the first time. I didn’t know this is how the trade works. When I asked for directions to a local leader’s house, they asked me if I too am a ‘leader’. Anyway, they had a request. Can I mediate with the leader? “We made a mistake about our votes last time. Hun sada samjhota karva diyo.” Read on this piece in The Indian Express to know what mistakes had they made. Democracy has many faces. This was an interesting one. And a very humbling one.
‘Restore Our Votes, This Time We Will Use Them As Promised
S P Singh
Shatrana (Patiala):
His name Ghuggu is not something the 17-year-old will tell you proudly. But this is the only name he has. “marasi han ji main (I am a marasi), his unhesitatingly delivered introduction somehow does not match the I-Love-NY T-shirt that he is sporting.
But then, when you exist on the margins of a village all your life, and are forever told not enter it unless really necessary, the incongruent becomes the usual. Ghuggu plays cricket with the village boys, when they are desperately short of a fielder, runs errands for the jatts, but has never seen anyone’s home from inside. “No one among us has,” he assures you, not wanting to be seen as the only marasi boy discriminated against.
On Shatrana’s edge live some 10 families of marasis in make-shift tarpaulin-covered huts, surrounded by a stinking cesspool of mud-mixed rainwater. There’s little ‘make-shift’ about them, however. Huts haven’t shifted in the last 40 years, and their condition hasn’t improved.
Marasi families live beyond the realm of cognizance. “We exist on their mercy, may God give the zamindars long life so that mercy is always upon us,” said 35-year-old Sukha, who has taken care to change his kids’ names recently to more palatable Sonu, Happy, Rinku and Babli. Of course, no one has known about surnames, or their need.
Vote season normally used to bring good tidings, and by default, a little bit of India Shining used to percolate down to their lives – a couple of grain-filled buckets, a few hundred rupees, or, at least, one marasi confirmed, a bottle of cheap liquor.
But even with a Maharani contesting here, these subjects in her kingdom royale have little to cheer about. Word got out last season that they didn’t vote as per the choice of the sarpanch who had given them extra grains in lieu of votes. “One of us only told him that we have voted the other way, so they got our votes cancelled. Eh election tan sukki hee ho gayee ji saade layee (This election is a bit dry for us), Satpal, 35 said.
But prompt as much as you wish, this is all he rues. Not his general condition. Not the fact that he is forever telling his children not to enter the village unnecessarily. Not the fact that governments over half-a-century haven’t done enough for the families which settled here after being uprooted by the Partition. Most children are trained marasis can sing, play the harmonium, and hit each other on the cue with the chamota, the patented leather flaps the marasis wield during mimicry shows.
“What do you want the government to do for you?” This is the marasi’s chance. He realizes the importance, confabulates with his colleagues for a good five minutes, and they all agree on what to tell the scribe: Government should ensure that marasis are called to all auspicious functions, and they are good omen. “This will make sure we always have enough to eat,” says Chaman.
As the car moves, Satpal comes running behind, shouting to stop. “Please also write that our votes should be restored. We will vote as per our promise. On Shatrana’s outskirts, democracy has peculiar ways of enticing new fans.
April 25, 2004