2014: The Election That Changed India (13 page)

On 19 January 2013, Rahul Gandhi was made the
Congress vice president at a two-day Chintan Shivir (brainstorming) session organized in Jaipur.
Congress workers were ecstatic. This was the moment for which they had been waiting for almost a
decade—the official anointment of Rahul as the leader to take over the mantle from Sonia
Gandhi. Large cut-outs of Rahul dotted the Jaipur skyline. ‘
Hamara Neta, Rahul
Gandhi
’ was the war cry. ‘I can see Rajiv’s dream being fulfilled
today,’ said an emotional Congressman, breaking down in front of the TV cameras. Asked whether
this meant that Rahul would now be the Congress’s prime ministerial candidate for the 2014
elections, the Congress spokesperson Janardhan Dwivedi quickly pressed the pause button. ‘Any
election-or campaign-related decisions will be taken at a later stage.’

The next day, Rahul made his maiden speech as
Congress vice president. It was a passionate address. ‘Last night each one of you
congratulated me. My mother came to my room and she sat with me and she cried . . . because she
understands that power so many people seek is actually a poison.’ He added, ‘My mother
sees power as poison because she is not attached to it. The only antidote to this poison is for all
of us to see what it really is and not become attached to it. We should not chase power for the
attributes of power. We should only use it to empower the voices.’

The entire Congress leadership on stage and the
party workers in the auditorium applauded. The ‘
ma–beta
’ theme resonated
strongly with a party of loyalists wedded to a family—the torch was being
passed to another generation of Nehru–Gandhis. The speech, we were told, was
spontaneous—this was Rahul Gandhi speaking from the heart. My own response as a political
analyst in the studio was a shade sceptical. ‘If power is poison, then why is Rahul Gandhi in
politics which is ultimately the pursuit of power?’ I asked.

The answer was given later that evening by Digivjaya
Singh who had observed Rahul closely. ‘Rahul is not like any other politician. He
doesn’t believe in power, he wants to fight injustice!’ he claimed. I wasn’t
convinced. Politics is not about taking sanyas, it is about being a
grihasti
, it’s
about taking responsibility by leading from the front. Rahul’s self-identity appears to be of
someone who had entered electoral politics not out of choice but compulsion. The contrast with
Narendra Modi, who wore his political ambition on his sleeve, could not have been starker.

Nine months after delivering his ‘power is
poison’ speech, Rahul Gandhi showed why he was the second most powerful person in the country
at the time. On 27 September 2013, he described an ordinance passed by the Union cabinet that would
prevent the instant disqualification of convicted MPs as ‘complete nonsense’. It was an
open, blatantly direct and public criticism of the Congress-led Manmohan Singh government which had
cleared the controversial ordinance just three days earlier. The prime minister was in Washington at
a summit meeting with the US president Barack Obama. The moment he returned a week later, an
emergency Cabinet meeting revoked the ordinance.

The ‘nonsense’ remark was made during a
press conference at the Press Club of India in Delhi being addressed by the Congress’s
communication head and MP, Ajay Maken, who had come there to inaugurate a gymnasium. The press
conference had just begun when our Congress beat reporter rang up the newsroom to say that Rahul
Gandhi would be making an appearance. At first we thought it was a rumour. Then, mysteriously, Maken
got up from the dais
and said he had to attend an urgent phone call. Minutes
later, Maken was back and smiled. ‘Rahulji will come and address you now on the
ordinance.’

Sure enough, Rahul strode in a little while later in
his usual kurta–pyjama attire. Rolling up his sleeves, stroking his beard, he looked every
inch the angry young man. ‘My opinion about the ordinance is that it is complete nonsense. It
should be torn up and thrown away.’ Before the stunned journalists could seek a response,
Rahul had walked away. It was a brief item number yet again—only here he was playing
anti-establishment hero. Maken, who earlier had defended the ordinance, was clearly embarrassed but
tried to put up a brave face. ‘Now that the Congress vice president has made it clear, the
line is very clear. The Congress party is supreme.’

Later, I asked Maken if the entire exercise had been
choreographed in advance to project Rahul as an anti-corruption crusader. ‘No, no, I had no
idea that Rahul would make the statement. I was also caught unawares and was told about it just
fifteen minutes before he made an appearance,’ he claimed. But just a day earlier, one of
Rahul’s groupies, South Mumbai MP Milind Deora, had tweeted, ‘Legalities aside, allowing
convicted MPs/MLAs to retain seats in the midst of an appeal can endanger already eroding public
faith in democracy.’ Clearly, Team Rahul wanted to send out a message distancing themselves
from the government decision.

The prime minister had been humiliated. Appearing on
a TV programme that night, the prime minister’s former media adviser Dr Sanjaya Baru told me,
‘Enough is enough, Dr Singh should resign!’ Sonia Gandhi reportedly rang up the prime
minister and made suitably apologetic noises on Rahul’s behalf. Rahul himself is believed to
have admitted to Dr Singh that he should have framed his opposition to the ordinance in less
combative terms. The prime minister wanted to step down but chose to keep the peace, yet again.

The sudden eruption in public reflected poorly on
Rahul and the Congress party. His behaviour seemed brattish and disrespectful, hardly a sign of
political maturity. It appears that his aides had convinced him at last that he needed to establish
an independent
identity ahead of the 2014 elections. He had to rid himself of
the baggage of being part of the UPA-II’s decision-making process. If, as a result, the prime
minister and even Sonia Gandhi were left a trifle red-faced, then that was a small price to pay.
What Rahul and his aides didn’t realize in the autumn of 2013 was that their actions were not
just undignified, but also once again a case of too little, too late. The narrative of UPA-II being
a government that compromised with corruption had already been scripted. No one, not even Rahul
Gandhi, could now alter the storyline in the popular imagination.

The Congress-led United Progressive Alliance probably lost Verdict 2014 on 1 June 2011, almost three years before judgement day. It was a searingly hot day in June when four Union ministers of the UPA government rushed to Delhi airport to receive yoga guru Baba Ramdev and urge him to call off his proposed fast against corruption and black money. The sight of the government prostrating itself before the controversial saffron-robed self-styled ‘guru’ as though he was a distinguished head of state said it all—the UPA government had lost its nerve and, perhaps, its self-esteem too.

The ministerial delegation to the airport was led by then finance minister Pranab Mukherjee and comprised telecom minister Kapil Sibal, parliamentary affairs minister Pawan Kumar Bansal and tourism minister Subodh Kant Sahay. Months later, I asked Mukherjee about the airport visit. Over several cups of lemon tea, Mukherjee admitted, ‘It was a blunder, a big blunder. We should have never done it,’ and, pointing to a photograph of Indira Gandhi on the wall behind him, added, ‘We needed leaders like her to put these babas in their place.’

The Hardwar-based saffron-clad Ramdev was born Ramakrishna Yadav in a Haryana village. His yoga skills transformed him from
a village boy to a highly successful businessman, running a chain of yoga training institutes across north India. He had even diversified into manufacturing herbal products. His critics accused him of being a land-grabber and selling fake herbal medicines, but his supporters saw him as a soldier of God (one of them had ‘gifted’ him an island near Scotland). He definitely was politically ambitious. ‘I want to change India, Rajdeepji,’ he told me, looking at me with his piercing eyes that seemed to hide many mysteries. Latching onto the anti-corruption bandwagon, he had set up an organization called Bharat Swabhimaan Andolan (Indian Self-respect Movement) with the backing of RSS affiliates. He was looking for his place at the high table. The UPA-II government, astonishingly, carried the banquet to him.

The attempt to placate Ramdev had actually begun weeks before the ill-fated airport visit. The yoga guru had declared he would go on an indefinite fast if the government didn’t take steps to bring back black money stashed in illegal tax havens abroad. Worried about the black money issue catching national attention, finance ministry officials had begun secret negotiations with the yoga guru. A special plane was kept on standby to fly out to meet the baba in his ashram at short notice. Sibal had been told to cancel a scheduled foreign visit and lead a team to meet Ramdev. Mukherjee and the prime minister’s office (PMO) were kept in the loop. And yet, no one will quite reveal who took the final decision to meet him at the airport, though the needle of suspicion points towards Mukherjee.

That morning, Mukherjee was scheduled to address the Editors’ Guild of India at the India International Centre. His arrival was delayed because, we were told, his previous engagement had got extended. When he finally arrived close to noon, the gathering was already restive. Mukherjee was duly apologetic and promised to stay for lunch. He gave a brief speech and then prepared for a question-and-answer session. ‘Ask me any question you want,’ he said, sounding a little more relaxed. A few minutes later, his mood had changed. His assistant had whispered something in his ear and he now looked visibly agitated. ‘Sorry, I have to leave, something
urgent has come up,’ he said. Forgoing the IIC’s baked vegetables and ginger pudding, he hurried out. A few hours later, we realized the reason for the urgency. News channels had begun to flash the ‘breaking news’ on the Mukherjee–Ramdev meeting.

Sibal told me later that the ministers eventually went to the airport not to ‘receive’ or ‘negotiate’ with Ramdev but to serve him an externment order from the national capital. ‘We wanted to make it clear to him that he could not hold his proposed fast and start an anti-government gathering under the guise of a yoga camp. He agreed to our demand which is why he was allowed to enter the city,’ he claimed.

And yet, three days later, the government’s worst fears came true. Ramdev stormed into his proposed indefinite hunger strike on the black money issue at the Ramlila Maidan, charging the Congress and the UPA government with being corrupt and unconcerned about bringing back black money. His supporters began gathering in large numbers. A desperate government reiterated its appeal to him to call off the fast, with Sibal even making public a letter of Ramdev’s aide assuring that the fast would be called off if a legislation was enacted on black money. An angry Ramdev accused the government of ‘betrayal’. A battle of wits was being played out in the glare of television—a tough-talking, charismatic yoga guru with a vast following of common, devout folk, a god-man with nothing to lose, versus a mighty Union government whose credibility was on the line.

At midnight on a hot June night, as the devotees slept in crowded ranks at Ramlila Maidan, the Delhi police swooped down on the protestors, firing tear-gas shells and resorting to a lathi charge, forcing people out even as they were half asleep. Ramdev, who escaped disguised as a woman, was eventually detained and forced to leave the city. A few of his supporters were injured in the clashes with the police. One of them, Rajbala, was grievously hurt; she died in hospital weeks later. Ramdev had been dramatically transformed from controversial yoga guru into a heroic figure. The Government of India had been shown up as effete and insensitive. A sleeping
congregation is not an unlawful assembly, the Supreme Court thundered a year later.

In a media interaction just ahead of the Lok Sabha results in 2014, then home minister P. Chidambaram said Ramdev had played a political game. ‘He was not conducting a yoga camp. He was holding a political show. I think the way it was handled was right, except for that last misstep,’ he argued. He even challenged those who called the yoga guru a ‘baba’. ‘He is no baba . . . he is no saint, just call him Mr Ramdev.’

And yet, in the summer of 2011, this same ‘Mr Ramdev’ had forced the government into an almost unprecedented panic mode. Intelligence sources claim the home ministry was worried that Ramdev had strong connections with the RSS and the entire Sangh Parivar, which is why there was a sense of fear of what could happen next.

The fact is, just weeks earlier, the government had faced a similar crisis when Anna Hazare’s fast against corruption had led to massive protests. In the face of a seemingly gigantic mobilization against corruption, covered relentlessly on TV, the UPA had run terrified and cowered behind dithering officialese about media-manufactured movements. Seriously rattled, confronted by a ringing repudiation of its moral authority at its doorstep, clueless on how to gain the upper hand over disobedient crowds exploding from every TV set, the government certainly didn’t want a repeat of the Anna paroxysm. In the end, the UPA got exactly what it didn’t want—more public opprobrium. Anna first, and then Ramdev—2011 would turn out to be the UPA’s annus horribilis, perhaps setting the agenda for a general election that was still three years away.

When Anna Hazare arrived in Delhi on 4 April 2011 to go on a fast against corruption, the country was caught up in cricket World Cup fever. Mahendra Singh Dhoni’s Men in Blue had captured the hearts and minds of a nation. On 2 April, when Dhoni hit the six that lifted
the trophy, the nation was euphoric and united. Television channels endlessly replayed images of Dhoni, Tendulkar, Yuvraj and the other heroes who had lit up the Mumbai skyline on that magical day. Even the politicians, led by Sonia Gandhi, were out on the streets waving the tricolour. Just three days later, the same Indian public had found an unlikely hero in a septuagenarian Gandhian activist from the small village of Ralegan Siddhi in Maharashtra. Television channels had a delicious new story to tell. Only, this time the politicians were on the wrong side of the divide in the face of pulsating citizen power.

If Dhoni had made winning the World Cup his goal, Anna came to Delhi with an equally focused mission. He said he was going on an indefinite hunger strike against corruption and demanded the implementation of the long-pending Lok Pal Bill that provided for the setting up of an anti-corruption ombudsman. The initial response was lukewarm. Very few in the national media were really aware of Hazare and his politics. He had spent most of his life in Maharashtra, taking on ministers accused of corruption, and had built a formidable reputation as an untiring crusader for public causes. At least three state ministers had been forced to resign because of his efforts. But in Delhi, the Gandhi topi of Hazare seemed like a museum piece from another era—he was seen as little more than a temporary distraction, just one of the many activists who populated Jantar Mantar through the year.

When Hazare began his fast on 5 April the story was just another headline. That day, Anna spoke out against the Union agriculture minister and Maharashtra strongman Sharad Pawar, questioning his credentials to be part of the group of ministers appointed to review the draft Lok Pal Bill. The attack on Pawar was sharp and hit home—the next day, Pawar resigned from the committee. Suddenly, the national media sat up and took note. Hazare was now a front-page story being played out across television channels. A fast which had begun with a few hundred supporters was now gaining momentum. Within seventy-two hours, it would strike a huge chord across the country.

I was at Jantar Mantar watching with amazement as the crowds
kept growing. My teenage son Ishan had gone with his class friends on a Yamuna yatra to Uttarakhand. Suddenly, I spotted him at Jantar Mantar with schoolmates. ‘We’ve come here to express our solidarity with Anna,’ he said enthusiastically. He was not alone. A majority of the audience were middle-class Indians—government employees, housewives, shopkeepers, traders, all of whom had a story to tell about how corruption was affecting their lives.
‘Annaji sahi kar rahe hain, woh hamari ladai lad rahe hai’
(Anna is doing the right thing, he is fighting our fight), was the overwhelming sentiment. Even one of the local policemen who had been charged with providing security for Hazare admitted quietly,
‘Bande mein hai dum!’
(This man is strong.) Shades of Gandhi emanated subliminally from the image of Anna. A few years earlier the Bollywood hit
Lage Raho Munna Bhai
had popularized a pop icon Mahatma, a quaint throwback to the nostalgia-laden black-and-white era. Anna was clever enough to project himself as this New Age Mahatma, ideally suited for an urban public looking for a shortcut to reliving the heady atmosphere of the freedom struggle.

OB vans had now been permanently parked at the site. Live shows were being done from the venue by senior TV anchors, angry voices being magnified by the TV echo chamber in the studio. Just as Gandhi mugs and keychains had done good business after the
Munna Bhai
movie, now ‘Anna caps’ and tricolours were being sold at the venue like fairground delights. Candlelight marches were organized at India Gate and across several state capitals, while the social media buzzed with the Anna refrain through Facebook posts and Twitter trends.

In hindsight, it’s easy to suggest we overplayed the Anna protests. A television anchor likened it to the ‘second war of independence’, while one channel created a permanent screen slug ‘Anna is India’. News television has a tabloidish urge that thrives on conflict and controversy. The outrage at times is deliberately manufactured and I cannot claim to be indifferent to the temptation to join the chorus of indignantly aggressive voices. I remember anchoring a show from Jantar Mantar surrounded by Anna supporters. By the end of
the programme, I was speaking a language which suggested I had become one of them! The popular Hindi news channels in particular, I suspect, were engaged in a class war—Anna, they felt, was storming the citadel of a corrupt and privileged anglicized ruling elite.

Not having experienced this kind of visible public protest, literally at the doorsteps of the state, the government, which had a communication strategy that oscillated between ambivalence and non-existence, pressed the alarm button. Ambika Soni, then information and broadcasting minister, called up to ‘suggest’ we ‘tone down’ our coverage. Unlike other information and broadcsting ministers, Soni was generally non-interfering. Not that day. ‘Don’t you have any other news to show but Anna?’ she asked pointedly.

A section of the establishment was convinced that Anna’s movement was an RSS-backed conspiracy designed to destabilize the UPA government. Images of Mother India on the stage, repeated chants of ‘Bharat Mata ki Jai’ and ‘Vande Mataram’ had persuaded some government ministers and officials to believe that the agitation was being propped up to target the central government politically. The presence of a few RSS leaders and volunteers on stage had only added to this suspicion. The strong presence of Sri Sri Ravi Shankar’s Art of Living supporters had given what one government minister called a ‘saffron edge’ to the movement. ‘Anna is only a prop—the real power is with the RSS,’ Digvijaya Singh told me in an interview at the time.

He wasn’t entirely off the mark. The RSS had decided to support the Anna agitation sensing an opportunity to embarrass the UPA government. Sri Sri’s own role was suspicious as well. I had met the Art of Living guru for the first time during the Dharam Sansad at the Kumbh Mela in Allahabad in 2001. Then, along with other VHP-supported sants and sadhus, he had joined the demand for a Ram mandir in Ayodhya.