On the evening before the elections in Delhi, we were with friends celebrating their wedding anniversary at their home, surrounded by other friends, great art and even finer performances. For they’d pulled out all stops to commemorate the occasion, with a jazz pianist and singer, and a bevy of belly dancers who livened up the night with, well, belly dancing inches from where some of us were huddled in deep discussion about the merits of the BJP and the Congress, about their candidates, and how our votes, a few hours later, would change India forever.
Because I was concentrating on the elections the next day, I had merely a glass of wine, or perhaps it was two, and when the rest of the guests were hooting, or falling cravenly at the feet of a dancer, I thought pious thoughts to keep my mind clear and focus on the important task at hand. And though my wife said the brain curry was terrific, and had I tasted the sliced leg of lamb, I chose only from the vegetarian selection because I did not want to entertain any distractions, and even though she did not want to come home, I managed to drag her away so we could be tucked in early and rise fresh to go cast our vote the following morning.
The next day, while my wife slept, I practised punching buttons with my forefinger — I didn’t want to cast the wrong vote by mistake — and gathered all the proof anyone might require of my bonafide citizenship: House papers, bank statements, PAN card, passport, driving licence, everything but the voter I-card that had been lost, but which could as easily be substituted by any other document from a list the electoral office had put out and which I had memorised. I controlled my temper while my wife dawdled and wasted time before exercising our franchise, so by the time we got to the centre where we were to cast our vote, most people had already gone, and we did not have to queue up to collect our voting slips…but alas, only to find our names did not figure in the lists. We checked and re-checked, and checked once more, only to find that the election commissioner had disenfranchised us.
Some detective work later, I was able to piece together the likely sequence that led to this sorry state of affairs. Those who know us have been known to complain that if there is one thing you can expect my family to not do, it is to answer the door. My daughter spends the bulk of her day in the study, which is right next to the front door, but she has never been known to open the door when it rings. There are times I have rushed out dripping wet from the shower in response to the doorbell, to find my wife chatting away on the phone, oblivious to the fact that the front door requires to be opened. The servants each expect the other one to respond to the doorbell, as a result of which no one does.
Over the years we have acquired a sort of infamy among delivery boys — groceries, or takeaways, ordered over the phone, are rarely collected, not because there is nobody at home but because no one chooses to attend to the doorbell. And it must have been such a situation when officials from the local electoral office came to check whether those of us who claimed to be in residence were actually in residence, and having found the apartment unattended, eliminated us from the list of voters. The pity is not just that I didn’t get to vote, but that I had to refrain from enjoying the high art of the belly dancers.
