Dial V for votebank

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I don't know about you, but I think it's kind of cool when the Prime Minister wants to chat you up on your mobile and tell you the country's doing well, and that he wishes you the best.

Not that I did believe it was Atal Bihari Vajpayee at first, even though he introduced himself politely. And I must confess that I didn't register all that much of what he said afterwards, and not just because he was speaking in Hindi, but because even though it's exciting if the PM calls to speak to you, all that stuff about development gets a bit boring after a while.

"You know," I said to Vajpayee, "I'm delighted you've called, but what I'd really love is a guided tour of 7 Race Course Road." Vajpayee must get asked that a lot, for he ignored my interruption and carried right on about India shining and all that rot.

"It's a pre-recorded message, you moron," said a colleague to whom I'd whispered that the old boy was chatting me up on the cell, "that's being aired to mobile phone users around the country."

That, I admit, was disappointing: Even though it was still Vajpayee on the phone, it wasn't Vajpayee live. "At least," I retaliated to my colleague, "he bothered to get my number."

"From a random computerised selection," agreed my colleague, "that probably includes your newspaper vendor, the neighbour's driver and your provisions store owner."

This was a bit of a dampener, but at least no one else in the office had been called up by Atalji "" right? Wrong, as it turned out, for the PM seemed to have turned into a serial speaker, and by the end of the day, he'd chatted up half the office, and the novelty of the calls was wearing off.

"Big deal," said a friend, to whom I crowed that Vajpayee had chosen to call me over him, "it's not as if you're going to vote for him." "Who I vote for is none of your business," I said huffily.

"Listen, chump," said my friend, "you haven't cast your vote in all the years I've known you, and that's been a long time." "That's probably because I've been travelling," I suggested, "or busy."

"Or partying," suggested my friend. "Don't be silly," I retorted, "you don't party during the day." "Not normally, no," agreed my friend, "but election day is a holiday, and what with happening to just hang around, and it being a dry day and all that, I know we've ended up emptying the fridge of all beer."

"I remember," I said, "and because that made me sleepy, I thought I'd go cast my vote after a nap, but by the time I woke up it was too late, and the booths had shut shop for the next five years."

"This time," said my friend, "let's have the beer after we've done our bit for Vajpayee." "What makes you so sure that I'll vote for his party?" I asked. "What, and ignore his phone call," my friend was aghast.

"It's not as if he was calling himself," I hesitated, "besides, there's a long time to go before the elections, by which time Sonia Gandhi might want to call too." "Now that's a thought," agreed my friend, "and if she does, it'll make it all the more difficult to decide between the two."

"The thing to do," I said, "is evaluate the merit of their arguments." "Well, you didn't follow much of what Vajpayee said," he censured me, "and I'm all the more apprehensive about making sense of what Sonia might have to say."

"Why is that?" I asked. "Because she'll probably speak Italian," he suggested, "which is a language neither of us knows."