BJP Delhi rally: Modi, the media and their great political game

Chhotu is more than happy to oblige. He poses like James Bond, his fingers cocked in an imaginary gun. He sticks his hip out and sashays like Munni while the loudspeaker blares the BJP’s anthem to bring change in Delhi – a song which works both balatkar and bhrastachar into its lyrics. Chhotu makes V-signs for still cameras, does cartwheels for television cameras, all the while wearing his Narendra Modi paper mask. “Aare yaar, you should take it off once in a while so television-wallas can see your face,” remonstrates a young man near him. But the media is interested in the dancing boy in the Modi mask, not so much in the person behind it.

He tells me his name is Manish. He studies in the third grade. He lives “over there” he says gesturing across the dusty fields of Japanese Garden, where the big rally took place, with his papa, mummy and three brothers. His father makes pants he says though his own khaki trousers are pockmarked with holes. He came by himself to check out the tamasha. Manish is ten. Crowds in the Modi rally. Naresh Sharma/Firstpost.

 Crowds in the Modi rally. Naresh Sharma/Firstpost. As the great Narendra Modi rally in Delhi draws to a close, another sideshow springs up in its wake, this time for television cameras hungry for new visuals. “Look at that man’s orange turban” says one journalist. “He looks very fierce.” She sends a photographer to take pictures of him. Like lemmings the rest of us follow. The man pumps his fist in the air and shouts ‘Modi lao, desh bachao’ with even greater zeal as cameras ring him. He is Pratap Singh, a man in his sixties, a farmer with a lined face and a bright orange turban. .

 It’s his first time seeing Modi and he’s elated. He’s come from Rajnagar about 40 km away. Deepak Singh, a farmer next to him, says hesitantly it’s his first time as well. He’s come from even further away – 120 km. But Deepak Singh does not have a grand orange turban. We are not interested in him. But Mahesh Ojha looks more promising. He is cradling a wooden boat with pictures of Narendra Modi and Mahatma Gandhi stuck to its masts.

He calls it Modi’s Vijay-rath but it turns out he’s no partisan. Ojha is carrying a scrapbook of other victory boats he has carved for other political leaders – Manmohan Singh, Atal Behari Vajpayee, even one for Sachin Tendulkar after India’s 2011 World Cup cricket victory. He just wants to give this one to Modi because he hopes the government will do something for kalakars like him so they do not have to wander around on the streets. Can the media reach his Vijay-rath to Modi he asks. The media, however, has swarmed on. A cluster of Muslims, in skull caps and hijabs, has sprouted magically like mushrooms after the Modi shower. Television cameras crowd around them. The speakers are clearly on message. “He was very very good,” says Mohammad Sadiq.

“He didn’t say vikas for Hindus or Muslims. He says vikas for all.” I hear another man in another group say basically the same thing. If anyone is aware of this dance with the media, it’s the master himself. During his speech, Narendra Modi worked the crowd like a pro. As the cheers for the man rose to thunderous levels, echoing up from the crowd and down from the men hanging from the columns for a better view, Modi paused with a smile. “Aap ka hosh, utsaha, umang, media note kar liya hai (your enthusiasm and energy has been noted by the media,” he quipped.

 “Now sit down so others can listen properly.” In the world of political rallies, where the jokes, the applause lines and the rhetorical flourishes are all scripted, this is a sly acknowledgement by the man himself that he understands full well he is playing a game, a drama for the benefit of an audience way beyond Japanese gardens. The cheering crowd, the Muslims in front of television cameras, the BJP women stopping cars to smear red tikas on the occupants while lustily shouting ‘Bharat mata ki jai’ – none of these are fake. But all of them are props, means towards a larger political end. And the media looking for real moments and photo-ops is a player in that same story as well, manipulated even as it manipulates.

It’s only when the cameras are packed away and the press cars leave in a cloud of dust, that the bustle of ordinary life slowly drifts back into place. A line of rally goers, many of them Muslim, snake across the empty field towards the main road. A group of them stop to eat some Mangalpur ke papad because it’s long past lunch time now. A boy walks by hawking cream rolls – two for ten rupees. A vendor sells slices of coconut. A man poses in his black PROGRESS t-shirt with a photograph of Modi. He says he got it for free. “Chalo, at least one t-shirt I got for coming today,” he grins.

The city outside is now making one last attempt at cashing in on the great Vikas rally. The cycle rickshaw has turned into a rickshaw-pool to the Metro station. He tells me he wants 15 rupees. The next two passengers bargain him down to ten. One has come from Dakshinpuri and is very impressed at how the BJP has pulled off this mammoth rally, in grounds bigger than Ram Lila. “No one was pushing and shoving,” he says. “Isn’t that something?” When we get off at the Metro station, I offer the rickshaw driver ten rupees. He insists on fifteen though he takes ten from the others. “Aap zaban diya (you gave your word)” he says. He has me there. On a day when Narendra Modi tells that huge crowd that he is a man of his word and will never betray their trust, how can I break my word to a rickshaw puller? I meekly pay up my fifteen rupees.

Chhotu is more than happy to oblige. He poses like James Bond, his fingers cocked in an imaginary gun. He sticks his hip out and sashays like Munni while the loudspeaker blares the BJP’s anthem to bring change in Delhi – a song which works both balatkar and bhrastachar into its lyrics. Chhotu makes V-signs for still cameras, does cartwheels for television cameras, all the while wearing his Narendra Modi paper mask. “Aare yaar, you should take it off once in a while so television-wallas can see your face,” remonstrates a young man near him. But the media is interested in the dancing boy in the Modi mask, not so much in the person behind it. He tells me his name is Manish. He studies in the third grade. He lives “over there” he says gesturing across the dusty fields of Japanese Garden, where the big rally took place, with his papa, mummy and three brothers. His father makes pants he says though his own khaki trousers are pockmarked with holes. He came by himself to check out the tamasha. Manish is ten. Crowds in the Modi rally. Naresh Sharma/Firstpost. Crowds in the Modi rally. Naresh Sharma/Firstpost. As the great Narendra Modi rally in Delhi draws to a close, another sideshow springs up in its wake, this time for television cameras hungry for new visuals. “Look at that man’s orange turban” says one journalist. “He looks very fierce.” She sends a photographer to take pictures of him. Like lemmings the rest of us follow. The man pumps his fist in the air and shouts ‘Modi lao, desh bachao’ with even greater zeal as cameras ring him. He is Pratap Singh, a man in his sixties, a farmer with a lined face and a bright orange turban. . It’s his first time seeing Modi and he’s elated. He’s come from Rajnagar about 40 km away. Deepak Singh, a farmer next to him, says hesitantly it’s his first time as well. He’s come from even further away – 120 km. But Deepak Singh does not have a grand orange turban. We are not interested in him. But Mahesh Ojha looks more promising. He is cradling a wooden boat with pictures of Narendra Modi and Mahatma Gandhi stuck to its masts. He calls it Modi’s Vijay-rath but it turns out he’s no partisan. Ojha is carrying a scrapbook of other victory boats he has carved for other political leaders – Manmohan Singh, Atal Behari Vajpayee, even one for Sachin Tendulkar after India’s 2011 World Cup cricket victory. He just wants to give this one to Modi because he hopes the government will do something for kalakars like him so they do not have to wander around on the streets. Can the media reach his Vijay-rath to Modi he asks. The media, however, has swarmed on. A cluster of Muslims, in skull caps and hijabs, has sprouted magically like mushrooms after the Modi shower. Television cameras crowd around them. The speakers are clearly on message. “He was very very good,” says Mohammad Sadiq. “He didn’t say vikas for Hindus or Muslims. He says vikas for all.” I hear another man in another group say basically the same thing. If anyone is aware of this dance with the media, it’s the master himself. During his speech, Narendra Modi worked the crowd like a pro. As the cheers for the man rose to thunderous levels, echoing up from the crowd and down from the men hanging from the columns for a better view, Modi paused with a smile. “Aap ka hosh, utsaha, umang, media note kar liya hai (your enthusiasm and energy has been noted by the media,” he quipped. “Now sit down so others can listen properly.” In the world of political rallies, where the jokes, the applause lines and the rhetorical flourishes are all scripted, this is a sly acknowledgement by the man himself that he understands full well he is playing a game, a drama for the benefit of an audience way beyond Japanese gardens. The cheering crowd, the Muslims in front of television cameras, the BJP women stopping cars to smear red tikas on the occupants while lustily shouting ‘Bharat mata ki jai’ – none of these are fake. But all of them are props, means towards a larger political end. And the media looking for real moments and photo-ops is a player in that same story as well, manipulated even as it manipulates. It’s only when the cameras are packed away and the press cars leave in a cloud of dust, that the bustle of ordinary life slowly drifts back into place. A line of rally goers, many of them Muslim, snake across the empty field towards the main road. A group of them stop to eat some Mangalpur ke papad because it’s long past lunch time now. A boy walks by hawking cream rolls – two for ten rupees. A vendor sells slices of coconut. A man poses in his black PROGRESS t-shirt with a photograph of Modi. He says he got it for free. “Chalo, at least one t-shirt I got for coming today,” he grins. The city outside is now making one last attempt at cashing in on the great Vikas rally. The cycle rickshaw has turned into a rickshaw-pool to the Metro station. He tells me he wants 15 rupees. The next two passengers bargain him down to ten. One has come from Dakshinpuri and is very impressed at how the BJP has pulled off this mammoth rally, in grounds bigger than Ram Lila. “No one was pushing and shoving,” he says. “Isn’t that something?” When we get off at the Metro station, I offer the rickshaw driver ten rupees. He insists on fifteen though he takes ten from the others. “Aap zaban diya (you gave your word)” he says. He has me there. On a day when Narendra Modi tells that huge crowd that he is a man of his word and will never betray their trust, how can I break my word to a rickshaw puller? I meekly pay up my fifteen rupees.

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