Andrew’s full lips opened and closed, stretched and rounded as he spoke. His Kannada was flawless – not even a hint of a twang. ‘What do you think?’ he finished with a question.
‘We need a leader from here, who has partaken of this soil. We need it more than any other state in India,’ Shivanna, 54, pronounced while reclaiming the key to his vehicle with his left hand.
Shivanna went on to bestow the title of the most accommodative Indian on Kannadigas, who went out of their way to welcome everyone. ‘Not just that,’ he said, his saliva augmenting his argument, ‘we will speak to every migrant in their language, even if we barely know it.’
Andrew took the steel tumbler from me, replacing it with the empty one he had just finished, punctuating the act with a smile.
‘Sir, you and your wife,’ Shivanna said, ‘stopped your vehicle here at a time when there are Kannada-speaking drivers.’
Shivanna’s words had come like a theatrical cue.
I leaned into Andrew, who dropped his left hand on my denim-clad knee. I felt a current spark through my spine. Andrew’s eyes were on my cheeks. I made a conscious effort to breathe, shifting in my seat. I didn’t quite know why at that point, but I understood that we were putting on a show for these people.
‘So, you think Hari Rao will win?’
There was a smile, a nod. A general waddle. ‘It is hard to predict what will happen in an election, sir. Nobody will say who they are voting for,’ Shivanna said.
Andrew nodded.
A little after, following another round of tea, the motley crowd dispersed.
The tea stall owner sidled up and informed us that this was the lull before the next lot of lorries arrived in an hour, or a few hours, depending on the weather, he said, looking up at the sky, which was without a dark cloud.
It was an open, brilliantly lit landscape that the tea stall owner stood against. A page that was waiting to be filled.
There was no telling how long they’d take, he continued.
Like Shivanna and the cleaners, who were on their way now, he expressed hope about Hari Rao’s return, saying that it would be good for Karnataka, but he wondered if Hari Rao would spend the money that swings elections these days. Like a good businessman, he gave some and asked for more.
‘What is your business, sir?’
What kind of a question is that?I wondered.
‘I’m working, but we are on our way to Mysuru to visit family.’
I ensured that my smile was all about familial contentment while I cheered Andrew on. He was prepared with his lines.
This was why we were posing as a couple. Lesson No. 1 on campaign duty: Do not disclose your identity. People, especially in the hinterland, are wary of media personnel.
‘IT?’
What else? Everyone in Bengaluru is a techie!
Andrew nodded.
‘Which office?’
What? Were we expected to write code now?
‘Wipro.’
I quickly gave my posture a techie order. A casual expression, a calculated stance.
Once we got back on the road, Andrew made a phone call to determine where exactly Hari Rao was. After a couple of exchanges with the personal assistant, we learnt that they were only a little ahead of us, by a couple of kilometres perhaps. I looked at my watch. We had spent more than an hour at the tea stall.
Just then, a television van overtook us, and Andrew decided to follow them. ‘They’ll be headed in the right direction,’ he said.
I nodded. I was still trying to read into the conversation at the stall. Would they vote for Hari Rao or not?
