Why Bihar election was a really tough one for pollsters

“Aap toh Bihar se hain, aap bataaiye...” goes the routine line. If you are from Bihar, and also a journalist, you are expected, often quite mistakenly, to know who will win in the "Modi versus the rest" contest.

It’s been one of toughest, most complex elections to predict a clear winner, with layers of conflicting factors at work. No wonder, most political pundits have disappointed with their "play safe" approach.

Even exit polls — with the exception of Chanakya that gave the NDA a tally of 155 in the 243-seat House — have predicted that the coalition, despite claiming to be riding on Modi magic, is fighting a neck-and-neck battle with the Grand Alliance of Nitish Kumar, Lalu Prasad Yadav and Congress.

The people of Bihar have clearly stumped the pollsters, unless it is actually, and unfortunately, a "dead heat" or a "photo finish", pushing the state to the worst possible scenario — a hung Assembly.

With the BJP, Nitish was seen to have built a fine partnership, putting Bihar back on track. His joining hands with Lalu, perceived to be the principal architect of Bihar’s unmaking, was said to have shrunk his following.

Senior editors in Bihar, some of whom have been seen to be cosying up with Nitish, however, said Yadavs, who had enjoyed power for a long time, were voting aggressively for Lalu and the Grand Alliance. Those seen on the other side of the fence said a sizeable section of the new generation of Yadavs was fed up with Lalu’s "cosmetic caste empowerment" and was voting for the BJP wherever Yadav candidates were fielded.

Some said 40 seats to the Congress, a party which ruled Bihar for 40 years before Lalu took over, were way too many. But then Nitish’s individual popularity, many said, remained a big pull. How does one know which factor will work, and which won't?

Since the election is being seen as a referendum on Narendra Modi, the prime minister pulled out all the stops, and held as many as 30 rallies, which were planned and executed by 20 Union ministers. This blitzkrieg, coupled with a multi-million dollar Bihar package announced by Modi, should have clinched the deal.

But has it been so? We saw what happened in Delhi. The states where BJP won post-2014 Lok Sabha polls had a straight, two-party contest. Unlike in Delhi and now in Bihar.

This is really a high-stake election. A defeat in Bihar may lead to a cascading effect and spoil the BJP’s plans to strengthen presence in states, without which many of Modi’s agendas will continue to be disrupted in Parliament.

So there is a whole lot of people who catch hold of you with: “Aap toh patrakar hain, aap bataaiye...”

And I am clueless. The mood among journalists cannot be better captured than this tweet: “Nobody has a clue what secret sleeps in Bihar's voting machines. One of the most complex elections. Each #ExitPoll is sheer timepass.”

But even otherwise, do journalists really have the ability to predict who will win? Political reporters do have the advantage of covering rallies, speaking to voters and the netas themselves. But does it really help or clutter the mind even more?

Most commentators who come from outside see what they want to see. Those who belong to the state but live elsewhere with years of disconnect clouding their sense of judgment are the most wayward.

The content of the "sons of the soil" argument does not change through various phases. Is this not because they say what they want to say and not what they see? Just watch them on TV discussions and read some of their pieces. Mid-level political reporters are in any case consumed by rhetoric.

At 2pm on Sunday, Nitish may or may not sit for the last time in the chief minister's car and leave to give his resignation to the governor, but results will be announced that day. Let’s wait till Sunday. We would all be wise in hindsight, again.

What it was like growing up in Lalu's Bihar and why I don't want him back

A group of children were playing cricket, oblivious of the commotion that surrounded them in an otherwise quiet neighbourhood. Another set of people were up to a different ball game — scaling the outer wall of a nearby school building to help examinees writing their papers inside.

Seemingly bored policemen started wielding their lathis. It was the Bihar of the 1990s. So the police action against unfair means was a bit of an aberration. There was panic and chaos. Some forced their way inside a house to hide. They later realised a marriage ceremony was taking place.

Cops went inside and got the culprits out. One guy pleaded innocence, but in vain. He and many others were bundled into a jeep and taken to the local police station. Late in the evening, it turned out that the person pleading innocence was the groom. He somehow had made it to the main ceremony.

Some of those, who were supplying chits, mixed with the cricket team. There was no differentiator. The children, including my elder brother and I, were also lathi-charged. Unable to take it, my brother tried hitting a senior officer with a stump. He also reached the police station. A family friend and also a local journalist used his contacts and brought the missing player back on a motorcycle. The cricket ball still in his hand.

As I said, the police action was an aberration in times like these when the rules were seldom followed. Every year when board exams took place in our neighbourhood, the scene was almost festival-like. "No home centre" was the only measure adopted in the name of curbing unfair-means. This basically meant one would write his papers in a school other than the one where he studied. Often the exam centre was in a neighbouring town.

During the exam, local students disappeared from our town. They were replaced by their counterparts from other areas. Family members and well-wishers also travelled with examinees. They came in droves. Apart from doing the "scaling the wall" act, they would hang around the whole day, cook, prepare chits, buy "guess papers". They were local tourists.

Brighter students were drafted to help examinees, often much senior to them. Once a teacher came out and revealed the questions, the job was to find the relevant portions from a literature called "atom bomb", tear them away for somebody to sneak the chits in.

It was amazing to see how people worked in an organised manner to help their wards copy. Girls, who just needed degrees and got them, were not even involved in the run-up. They just smiled and accepted the chits.

Opposition to English was marketed as an anti-elite policy as Lalu Yadav sought to woo his electoral constituencies. In 1993, says Wikipedia, Lalu adopted a pro-English policy and pushed for the re-introduction of the language in school curriculum, but I vividly remember writing my class ten papers two-three years later without English as a mandatory subject.

We were told that because of rampant unfairness, the high court said it would monitor the exam process and ordered authorities in all districts to ensure “free, fair and peaceful” exams. The result: more than 90 per cent students failed. I somehow managed to scrape though, but lost almost all my batchmates.

You cannot blame the court, because before that happened, it was a free for all. Students would stab knives in the desk before starting to write (read copy) so that no invigilator disturbed them. At times it was very cordial. Teachers would themselves write answers on the blackboard to make things convenient. It was all cleaned up when “flying squads” came calling, with prior intimation of course. In some cases, you could take the answer sheets home, write at leisure, and return when convenient. Trust me I’m not exaggerating.

Lalu and his wife Rabri Devi ruled Bihar for 15 years. It’s a period that saw lawlessness and corruption of worst kinds. As a young journalist, I was kidnapped and thrashed for a doing a few crime stories. But the criminal neglect of the education sector is what I think has hurt us the most.

It’s funny, but many know that the first story I wrote in 2001 for the paper I worked for till recently was on the malpractices of board exams. I wrote how girls needed degrees to be able to be married off. How boys needed certificates to able to get admissions, and also begin the everlasting struggle for jobs. My brother who returned from the police station with a cricket ball in his hand has been a very good student for a change. He got a government job only last month.

I thank cricket that gave me a career. I listened to AIR's running commentary that came alternatively in Hindi and English. I walked long miles for tuitions with a transistor set hanging around my neck. Trying to make sense of English was, perhaps, the toughest thing I then did. But I had to know the scores at all costs. Later, I developed a liking for Radio Pakistan, ABC and the more classically producedBBC commentary. For better pictures and graphics, I slowly switched from Cricket Samrat to Sportstar.

With some heartbreak, I dumped my favourite writer Charanpal Singh Sobti for the likes of Peter Roebuck. But all this needed a helping hand. Sahni Shabdkosh (from English to Hindi) made room for (English to English) Oxford Advanced Learner's Dictionary. Since I picked it up, to some extent I stood out. A leading paper was looking for a reporter for our area in 2001. But that's a different story, and for some other time. The "Santosh" radio remained my constant companion for long, as I kept changing cities to earn a living.

My brother was relentless. He got his job almost ten years after he wrote the test. We’re finally able to deal with the bitterness of not succeeding much in attempts at professional cricket. There were thousands others who have not been as lucky as me and my brother.

Nitish Kumar is seen as a good man. He fought Lalu’s "jungle raj" and tried to stem the rot. He built long-delayed bridges, re-layed roads, made health centres functional. He reigned in the criminal gangs. He also appointed thousands of teachers. It’s Nitish’s political compulsion, a battle for survival, owing to which he joined hands with Lalu.

I’m not getting into whether or not he is right in trying to stall the BJP — a party with which he made a fantastic combination and was seen to be putting Bihar back on track. The question is: Will Lalu allow him (in case the grand alliance wins) to continue the work he was doing. Many of my childhood friends — still stuck in the proverbial backwaters — are not very hopeful.

http://www.dailyo.in/politics/bihar-polls-nitish-kumar-lalu-prasad-yadav-rabri-devi-jungle-raj-bjp/story/1/7190.html

The Dogs that We are

"I have been standing here for two hours; don't try to be smart. I will get inside first," the video journalist told me. I was in no hurry. The door was locked from outside, after all. I remember I stepped back a little. 

Soon, more people began to come up. The whole stairway was full of people, carrying cameras, cables, tripods, mikes and note pads. Everybody was waiting for the family. 

The mother appeared first. Before she could greet us, she was jostled by many rushing for the door. "Are we allowed to show her face," asked a young woman. "Let's shoot now. Baad me dekhenge kya karna hai," said her male colleague, struggling to hold his video camera high. 

The mother managed to reach the door but couldn't  open it. Held up downstairs, her husband appeared after some time. He didn't have the keys either. Neighbours shut their doors. After a while, it turned out that their younger son had got the door locked from outside to keep the media at bay. He failed. 

He threw the keys from inside. In two minutes, journalists swarmed into the house. "Let us have a glass of water. We have been travelling the whole day. Please go outside. I will give interviews to all of you," the father pleaded. 

Nobody listened. Let's do the set up for now. We have been waiting for hours --- was the common refrain.  One of the bedrooms turned into a makeshift studio. Women  reporters invaded the washroom --- for make-up. They cracked jokes. 

Now the mother pleaded: "Don't we have any work to do? We cannot deal with so many people. We have not invited so many of you. Please come later." 

Again nobody listened. They check audio, plugged in cables, set up lights as if it was their own studio. Interviews began. All exclusives. "Did you ever ask your daughter what exactly happened to her on that bus?" "Do you remember her?" 

People grabbed the couple by their arms and took them to different directions for better angles. They were made to sit in particular postures. 

[Can you please look a bit sad?] 

"Us kaali raat to nirbhaya jab ghar se nikli thi to kya aapko ek baar bhi laga ki darinde usko apna shikaar bana lenge?" 

[Can we get a doll in the backdrop, just for effect?] 

The mother went into the kitchen to get water, but the light there was suddenly switched off, again without consent, because it was 'disturbing' the shoot happening in the next room. 

As crews began to pack and return, the mother said, "Look, they ransacked the entire house. I am paying Rs 2,000 as monthly power bills. They come and plug in all kinds of equipment. I will go mad. 

She turned to me, "Bhaiya, you didn't ask anything?" Her husband replied for me: "He never does." Having tracked the family for a year, I realised for the first time that I actually hardly ask anything when I meet them. I never have to. Just be with them and they have so much to share. 

The father broke my chain of thoughts. "Tea," he said. He makes tea for me every time I visit him. Not because I am a better journalist [he doesn't know which paper I work for] or I am more sensitive than others. In fact, I also have my share of guilt. It's just that I am, perhaps, working with a medium less evil. 

It all helped us pull on

My grandfather was an avid follower of the game. So were my father's peers. Since ours was one of the rare households with a television set, they would gather to watch matches. Those were the initiation ceremonies.

Shashtri's Audi is one of the earliest memories I have. Maybe the famous victory lap shown for several years to come is what actually I saw because in '85 I must have been too young to seriously appreciate such celebrations and rewards for individual cricketing brilliance. 

In 1992, I was aware that Pakistan had won the world cup, but the first tournament I actually watched was Hero Cup in 1993. The last over going from Kapil to Sachin was a brave decision but also symbolised what lay ahead for all of us.

By the 1996 world cup, I was mad about the game, playing for hours, worshipping Sachin like millions others. I skipped my intermediate exam, failed in the next attempt but couldn't shake the madness off. The arrival of Rahul, Saurav and VVS and later Sehwag provided more glue.

People talk of cricket and they talk of joy. Some say when Sachin scored, India slept well. Some found it a source of national integration when India won.

But for those torn between warring parents, suffering family feuds, fighting unemployment, the good results, though very few then, helped them pull on. Cricket also gave me a career.

I never covered cricket as a journalist, barring for a brief period in Ahmedabad. It helped me earn a living in a different way. I listened to AIR's running commentary that came alternatively in Hindi and English. Trying to make sense of the English bit was, perhaps, the toughest thing I then did. But I had to know the scores at all costs.

Later, developed a liking for Radio Pakistan, ABC and more classically produced BBC commentary. For better pictures and graphics, I slowly switched from Cricket Samrat to Sport Star. With some heartbreak, I dumped my favourite writer Charanpal Singh Sobti for the likes of Peter Roebuck. 

But all this needed a helping hand. Sahni Shabdkosh [from English to Hindi] made room for [English to English] Oxford Advanced Learner's Dictionary.

I was surrounded by people who didn't know English. Even I passed class 10 exams without English --- it didn't feature as a subject, thanks to Lalu Yadav's magnanimity. Since I picked it up to some extent, I stood out when HT was looking for a reporter for our area in 2001. But that's a different story. 

We had our mini battles in the neighbourhood. Initially, fights happened to prove Sachin was better than Kambli. When this became ridiculously irrelevant, we kept fighting for years to prove there's no connect between Sachin's centuries and India's defeats.

I began having to ignore cricket as I got busy with work, which I got to do because of cricket, and kept changing cities, my interest going up and down. But, Sachin Kitnya Banaya -- remained  a constant query. And praises for Rahul's solidity, VVS' selfless service and Saurav's captaincy were never hard to come by.

Slowly, they started leaving the scene one by one. The void being felt is not only because Sachin is retiring, it's because all the greats we grew up watching are not around. It's more because the game that meant so much is suddenly not that important to me.

I can't be in Kolkata or Mumbai. But I want to be in Lahli. It won't be possible, I guess. I can't claim I won't watch cricket now, I will follow Kolkata and Mumbai. 

But for me and many of my generation who saw the blitz and the poise from the mid-1990s to the mid-2000s,  the fun is surely gone.

My heart doesn't bleed...

                                                                                   (This is the lecture I delivered at Miranda House)

Hello everyone!

It’s a great opportunity to be here. 

But before I speak, first a disclaimer: I’m no expert. I’m a journalist. So, I’m a jack of all trades. I will basically deal with media’s role in environment protection. I will also try and offer some tips on how to collaborate with media for the green cause. And, yes, I will spare you the environmental jargons.  

Media has a great role to play in generating awareness on environmental issues. I’m sure reporters across publications are doing their job well. But I think we can do much more and less. What worries me particularly is the fact that the line between being a journalist and being an activist often gets blurred. That should not happen. Knowledge of the subject you’re dealing with always helps. But an environment reporter does not necessarily have to be an environmentalist.

In my career, I never did the environment beat. In my last assignment, I in fact covered the opposite – infrastructure development. But that didn't keep me from taking to environment reporting a year ago, when I came to Delhi.

I will share some of my recent experiences not to brag but to let you have a sense of how things work. I exposed luxury hotels, mighty clubs and hospitals for wastage of resources and causing massive pollution. 

My articles helped in saving a number of trees from being axed in the execution of poorly planned infrastructure projects. I also took the forest department and pollution control authorities to task whenever they indulged in blatant wrongdoing.

Mention my name and you will find officials of the Public Works Department particularly cursing me. That’s because so many of their idiotic projects have got stuck, contractors are losing crores, thanks to my articles. Taking note of my writing, courts have also scolded them time and again. I assure you none of it is personal for me.

Having said all of that, I firmly believe there’s only so much you can do as a reporter. Many here may not agree, but I believe it’s not my fight; I’m not party to it. And now a line which I often repeat and which will not make me any popular here --- my heart doesn't bleed when I see a tree being felled. But I know what to do about it.

I am dispassionate, because I don’t want to lose my sense of objectivity. Being dispassionate doesn't mean having no passion for you work. It simply means you do your job without bias. It means you don’t pre-judge people.

I am not on a mission to change the world, make it a better place to live in. My job is to make people aware of what is happening around them and, in the process, if I happen to help mitigate some of the problems, I feel good about it and move on.

But that’s for us, the reporters. You could be as passionate as you want. You have your convictions to drive you. Make interventions whenever required. There’s a tree helpline. Make use of that. Take to RTI; that’s a great tool when information is hard to come by otherwise.

What does awareness do? It creates interests. It sets people thinking. And without being full-time activist, they can do a lot. Our job is to report and let people take informed decisions. Our job is also to suggest alternatives to people and policy makers. And you have to take our suggestions up for debate and discussions.

With so much infrastructure development happening around and people taking to modern lifestyle, there's always a danger of natural resources being compromised. This is where you can come in.

But climate change is a very catchy term. We need to figure this, breaking it down to more relatable, more doable and more tangible activities. You can start with saving water at home, asking your neighbour not to hack that tree and use public transport.

There are 75 lakhs vehicles in Delhi. The daily addition is 1400. Every year, Delhi gets 6 lakh news cars. This means we need an additional 310 football fields every year to park these cars. 11% of Delhi has gone into parking. Only as much of this city is forest area. These vehicles also mean massive pollution.

You need to promote public transport. You need to ensure car usage goes down. But even public transport eats into greenery. For every phase of Metro expansion, 10 to 15,000 trees are sacrificed. You need to keep a watch on compensatory plantation.

Despite crores spent and various court orders, Yamuna remains choked with all kinds of pollutants. The river is dead, almost.  A total of 22 Delhi drains empty themselves into the river. 5.5 tonnes of arsenic is dumped into it by Rajghat power plant alone every year. DDA and DMRC have alone dumped 25000 truckloads of debris along the river.

Three of the four landfills are long overdue for closure and there are no fresh landfills available to take in the current daily discards of 9,000 tonnes. By 2020, the Capital needs an additional area of 28 sqkm, more than the entire spread of Lutyen's Bungalow Zone, to dump 15,000 tonnes of garbage per day.

Winter will soon be here. Delhi will soon face the smog problem. You need to check if Delhi has learnt its lessons. How are you going to do all this and more? That’s the question.  

I’m not citing these examples to scare you. This is just to let you have a sense of the task ahead. Environment is no more a fashionable word. It’s a daily reality, reminding us of the fact that survival will only get more and more difficult.

Build good rapport with reporters. But that takes some doing. We are so intelligent; we don’t mingle with rookies easily. You need to challenge us intellectually!

Kidding, but only partly. You actually need to convince us that not only you care for environment but you can also be a good source for the kind of reports we are looking for. After all, everything doesn’t get published. But that shouldn’t keep you from doing what is needed.

Every reporter has his own timings for newsgathering. If the subject you want him to pursue is not on his agenda, chances are he will avoid you forever.

Don’t lose heart. Don’t try and contact a reporter for not-so-important stuff, post-sundown. Because that’s when most of the stories are written.

What we expect is tough to tell. You will get to know as you go along. Often even we’re not sure what we want!

One piece of advice --- read, research and do real work. Never go for your moment of glory. Quotes and interviews appear only when you have done enough and your words carry weight. So, don’t try and reverse the process. 

The objective shouldn’t be lost sight of.

Together, we can make a difference.

Most of all, enjoy what you do

Thank you very much.

Looking back

Sometimes a glimpse from the past makes you pause and assess the present. A decade-old NDTV video, put out on the web more recently, in which senior journalist Tavleen Singh interviews me for doing a story on homosexuality was one such opportunity. The video reminds me of the kind of stories I, and my contemporaries, then managed to do. I was in my early 20s. I had neither been to a media school nor worked outside my small hometown. The way those stories would be written made them stand out. The anecdotes now linger in memories. They set the right tone.

We once discovered a village from where most families “contributed” at least one member to the business of stealing. The introduction featured a newly-married couple. The young man enthusiastically brought a cake of Pears, among other things, but his wife didn’t look impressed. She said her family used “this soap” for washing clothes. The man later discovered that her family members - who belonged to that village of thieves - had stolen cartons of Pears in the past but couldn’t sell all of those, and had to use the cakes for purposes other than bathing. Then the story, featuring interviews of policemen and locals, followed.

Sanjay Singh, who has been a mentor to me, did many such stories. He was not alone. There were many who were masters in telling such tales — away from the urban gaze.

Another story was about a village, which was not on the Railways map, but most families had members serving India’s biggest transporter. The story began with a quirky, tiny tale from the British period. A bunch of people from the village were travelling on a train, ticketless. Upon seeing TTEs, they changed their coaches and landed in one crammed with those selected to work for the Railways. A goof-up started a long tradition.

Only such tales were stories. The rest was news. We were groomed the same way. Photographs for these stories were shot by those who also shot photographs at wedding ceremonies. It’s a sheer misfortune that these stories didn’t go online then.

Not for a moment am I trying to ignore “anti-establishment” and “investigative” journalism. I’m only focusing on “tales”, which are rare now. Tales that people then told in most challenging circumstances.

We then didn’t have cell phones or computers. We wrote in the light of a lantern, and faxed them to journalism demigods in Patna. Overhead stone slabs resting on termite-infested wooden beams seemed to act like deadlines as I worked on a really old typewriter. Walls had plenty of seepages. Bed sheets and ragged saris — used as curtains — hanged limp. My reaction to the musty smell in the room — doubling up as my office — depended on the amount of time I took to type out the right introduction.

On days when your stories were not carried, you would tend to stare at flaking speckles of whitewash that often peeled off and, mixed with dust, lined the damaged floors.

There were threats. I received a mild threat for highlighting — with Tavleen — how homosexual relationships in India did not come out of Western influence; how many elite men in my town traditionally had male partners despite being married traditionally. 

I was also kidnapped and thrashed. I don’t know for which story. Around the same time I had done a story on how the backwardness in telecommunication was taking its toll on the law and order situation. Buxar was then one of the only two districts in Bihar where cell phones did not work.

A number of criminals who extorted money from behind the bars had been shifted to the Buxar jail, making the place and the prison sensitive with cavalcades of gangsters with sophisticated firearms frequently coming to meet their jailed bosses, opening a whole new vista of extortion and gang war.

In her subsequent writing, Tavleen describes my hometown, Dumraon - filthy, decrepit and felt the road every moment of the journey because “we rattled and shook rather than drove”. She wrote: “I have driven down some seriously bad roads in my time but have to say that the road from Buxur to Dumraon is in its own [of] special category. There is not the tiniest stretch that is a flat surface anymore.” In her article, she described me “a clever, ambitious young man who seemed oblivious to the decay that lay all around”.

What she meant was that when she pointed out roadside tea shops and vegetable sellers selling their wares on the edge of open drains clogged with solidified slime and plastic bags, I seemed to notice that for the first time.

With due respect to the point she made, civic problems were not the biggest stories for us. We had grown amidst those problems, but never complained because nothing was going to change. Can you make every Dumraon a Delhi? We had not seen the outside world. People sometimes don’t fathom the contrast, a reality of small towns and rural India.

My first story, for the paper I worked till six months ago, appeared in March, 2001. “Looted police rifle recovered.” A few days later, I got my first byline: “A cut in the fine will be fine for the cops.” It was about the police chief in the district asking for a share from the money realised as fine from examinees caught cheating.

For the first couple of years, I didn’t get any money. Later, things changed but the monthly pay was still in three digits. A clip on “one killed, two hurt in road mishap” fetched one Rs 10. So did a Page 1 lead. You got Rs 10 per appearance.

But passion drove us. Filing a report and waiting for the paper to arrive gave me goosebumps. In the morning, I straightaway looked for hawkers. I kept walking, covering long stretches on foot, hoping to bump into a hawker.

People always tried to avoid me in such times. If trains were late, the journey became longer. Finding out about the arrival of trains was also an important task. On several occasions, I reached the railway station only to find trains several hours late. If the report appeared, it felt great. The effort was worth it. I spread the word. I often bought two copies. One was for keeps. I kept the paper handy. I looked at the article. Several times.

http://www.dailyo.in/politics/bihar-homosexuality-gay-marriage-indian-railways-journalism-tavleen-singh/story/1/7318.html