VIDEO NIGHT IN UTTAR PRADESH

William Dalrymple discovers

a new medium and message on India's hustings

New Delhi THE truck arrived soon after darkness had fallen and the cicadas had begun to grind. The truck was bright yellow and brand-new and it glittered in the lights of the village chai shops. It parked discreetly beside Mr Bulwan Singh's rickshaw stand, im- mediately opposite the two-storey hoard- ing of Mrs Gandhi attached to the local Congress headquarters.

There was no inscription on the van's side, no indication anywhere as to its purpose or contents. But brand-new, bright yellow trucks are not an everyday occurrence in a village the size of Rajpur, and in this part of the world less exciting sights have been known to gather crowds of two or three hundred people.

Then the back-flap of the van fell away, and there was a gasp from the crowd. Inside was an enormous video screen the size of a fully grown Brahminee cow. This was no ordinary truck. This was the video chariot.

The screen flickered into life, died, then after a moment flickered back on again. To a loud blast of Hindi film music the audience were treated to a few minutes of triumphant archive footage of the Con- gress Party's Greatest Moments (Mahatma Gandhi, Nehru et al), followed by a long interview with the Congress candidate for the constituency. Over a period of ten minutes, the villagers watched while the candidate paid generous and extravagant tribute to his own contribution to the area.

By now the street had filled with people. Watchmen idling around fires left their braziers; old men in chai shops finished their tea and joined the crowd; boys playing on bicycles drove up and hovered around the back. The owner of the village dhaba looked sadly at his empty res- taurant, gathered his dhoti around him, and waddled over to join in, clutching his money-box to his belly. On screen, Rajiv Gandhi was being garlanded by cheering villagers; the soundtrack, oddly enough, was the Carpenters"Sing, Sing a Song.'

Soon, enough people had congregated to block the road, causing a small traffic jam and generating so much hooting of horns that the Carpenters were rendered inaudi- ble. Rajiv Gandhi turned to face the villagers.

The cars passed on, and everyone watch- ed in rapt, reverential silence as the leader of the opposition, the grandson of the great Punditji, the son of Durga-incarnate the Holy Martyr Indira-Rajiv himself, perso- nally addressed Rajpur. In mid-speech, two old men, overcome with patriotic fervour, fell down on their knees and made lavish obeisance to the video chariot. There was a clip of local musicians sere- nading the candidate and a last, excruciat- ing blast of film music. The screen dar- kened, and when it became clear that nothing more was to follow, the crowd began to disperse.

Reactions to the show were enthusiastic. `It is a very beautiful film. It tells only the truth,' said Mr Ajit Lal, the village derzi (tailor). His friend, Mr Hukum Singh, was equally impressed, but seemed a little muddled as to the fictional content of the film: 'I like very much this movie,' he said. `Most of all this film is good because our candidate is a very good actor.' Only Mr Satish Kumar, a farmer, seemed dissatis- fied: 'This film is saying that Rajiv Gandhi has given the farmers many goats and farm buildings and other good things,' he said. `But T have been given nothing.'

With less than three weeks to go until polling begins in India's general election, video chariots have been criss-crossing the subcontinent, dumbfounding villagers all the way from Ladakh to Tuticorin.

You can only understand the importance of the video chariot when you understand the most crucial statistic of any Indian election campaign: that 70 per cent of Indians are utterly beyond the reach of any of the conventional media. Newspapers are read by only six per cent of the population; and radio and television together reach little more than five times that number. Video chariots, of which there are now 108, cannot influence more than a fraction of that inaccessible majority, but they can completely alter the course of a campaign in a few vital constituencies.

Moreover, in a country where the one television station is state-controlled and heavily biased in favour of the ruling party, video chariots are the only means of getting the opposition's message to the illiterate masses — short of the candidate turning up and spelling it out himself. The video screen allows the candidate to be in 200 places at once: one chariot can give more than 20 shows a day and, if properly positioned, its huge screen can be seen by more than 5,000 people.

Dr J.K. Jain, the inventor of the video chariot, has learned to tailor his films to suit the vanities of the most egotistical Indian politicians. Devi Lal, the barely literate, former village wrestler who has been deputy prime minister to the last two administrations, likes to present himself as a man of the people. Accordingly, his video shows him in his fields, deftly wield- ing a sickle, chatting intently to other farmers, visiting his cows. The specially- commissioned theme tune, loosely trans- lated, goes like this:

Devi Lal, leader of the farmers, will make the blossoms bloom in the fall. Before such a leader, all enemies will cower, While Devi Lal stands tall.

Other leaders have grander visions of themselves. N.T. Rama Rao came to power as chief minister of Andhra Pradesh after a quarter century playing gods in Hindi films. Now, after a short break in politics, he has returned to his old pas- tures: he is shown dressed in flowing saffron robes, a halo balancing almost naturally on his head, while he orders the faithful to return him to power — his just, divine inheritance. Bal Thakery, leader of the extremist Hindu party the Shiv Sena (Shiva's Army), favours a more apocalyp- tic approach: his video includes long shots of mushroom clouds, bloodied (Hindu) corpses and yellow (Muslim) flames licking towards the Indian tricolour.

`It is a beautiful interaction,' says Dr Jain, leaning back on his swivel chair in his chic New Delhi office. 'We take the latest audio-visual equipment to the illiterate rural masses. . . we mix ancient Indian music and computer graphics, traditional motifs and ultra-modern media.'

It is also, he might add, an extremely profitable interaction. Dr Jain was unwill- ing to divulge his tariffs, but according to one source hiring a chariot for 100 per- formances would set you back £46,000 — a lot of money in India.

Dr Jain's video chariots were credited with being one of the main factors in the success of the Janata Dal at the last election in 1989. `I regard the whole operation with some satisfaction,' Dr Jain said somewhat smugly afterwards. 'I con- sider it to be a permanent contribution to the art and science of politics in India.' This time around he has enlarged his chariot fleet and greatly increased his charges; many rival companies have also sprung up.

But elections are not won by video chariots alone, and as polling day draws closer candidates from all parties are busy touring the country, addressing meetings in person.

During the last election, Rajiv Gandhi deliberately aimed to awe his countrymen. His campaign style was to fly into consti- tuencies by helicopter, drive to meetings in cavalcades of limousines, and appear floodlit on stage, swathed in a protective cladding of gun-wielding 'Black Cats', his personal Praetorian Guard. Following his defeat at the election, Gandhi has now appointed new PR men who have clearly instructed him to take a leaf out of the Janata Dal campaign book. This time Rajiv's style is low-key and unostentatious, concentrating on small corner meetings with rickshaw-loads of babies, long con- versations with toothless village grandmas and earnest discussions with shopkeepers about the price of rice. The Black Cats have been instructed to keep their dis- tance.

The ruse appears to be working. Gan- dhi's recent tours of Gujerat, Madhya and Uttar Pradesh have all been pronounced successful, and with genuinely ecstatic crowds following Rajiv wherever he goes the confidence of the Congress is growing. Of the myriad of parties that are contesting 'I coulda had class — I coulda been a contender.' the elections, it seems that only the Con- gress will be able to form a government on its own; any other potential government will have to be a coalition.

The Janata Dal has been split, with ex-prime ministers Chandra Shekhar and V.P. Singh leading rival and mutually estranged factions, neither of which seems likely to gain more than a handful of seats. V.P. Singh's campaign has been a particu- lar disappointment: his attempts to win the votes of the Untouchables and the Muslims by offering the 'minorities' 60 per cent of all government jobs has misfired, and V.P. is expected to win few votes outside his party's heartland in Bihar.

The Hindu Fundamentalist Party, the BJP, is likely to present a more formidable challenge. The party got off to a good start when its cadres fanned out across the country — supported by the entire fleet of Dr Jain's video chariots — in a campaign which culminated in the largest political rally since independence: on 4 April nearly half a million saffron-clad Hindus con- verged on Lutyens' great Rajpath in New Delhi to mutter about the 'descendants of Aurangazeb' (the Muslims) and to declare their allegiance to Ram Raj — the Rule of Rama — and the god's very own party, the BJP. The rally brought Delhi to a halt for three days, congealed the train network, caused a traffic jam of Calcuttan propor- tions and terrified every other party. None the less, the BJP's performance since 4 April has been disappointing: regional rallies have been badly attended, and there are no signs that the long awaited 'Hindu Wave' is gathering force. Indeed in the party's heartland of Rajasthan support actually appears to be ebbing. The Mus- lims are keeping their fingers crossed.

More than anything else, it has been inflation that has fed the Congress flame. Indian villagers have learned to live with corruption; for them it is an unpleasant but established fact of life, like the summer's heat. Price rises are a different matter: for many poor Indians the 60 per cent rise in the price of rice which took place in the first six months of Janata rule meant the difference between health and hunger. The Congress has always been corrupt, auto- cratic and self-serving, but it has generally kept inflation at bay. Support for the Congress is growing constantly, and there has been a steady stream of defections to the party — no fewer than 45 Janata and BJP MPs — in the last three weeks.

But the Indian political scene is notor- iously changeable, and the most unlikely factors can intervene to alter the entire perspective. Earlier this month newspaper polls discovered that support for the Con- gress was dropping fast in the South Indian state of Andhra Pradesh. Party analysts were quickly dispatched to identify the cause of the slump. It took them a fortnight to uncover the reason. The local party had put up the price of cinema tickets by one rupee — fourpence. This, it emerged, was a big blunder in the state with the most cinema halls in the country.

What is clear is that in this poll the votes are going to be split between many diffe- rent parties and that the result is going to be close-run. In India that means a violent election. Every party employs thugs to do its dirty work — to rig elections, intimidate rivals and collect funds — and without these thugs the whole political system would break down. As one MP from the northern state of Bihar told me: 'Unless you have one hundred men with guns you cannot begin to think of contesting an election from this state.'

Even a relatively clean politician like Rajiv Gandhi is guilty of violent electoral malpractice. During the 1989 general elec- tion his own Amethi constituency was the scene of some of the most bloody disturb- ances in the subcontinent. Motorised con- voys of armed thugs hit the polling booths, attacking journalists and election officials, stuffing ballot boxes with Congress votes. Rajiv's opponent, Rajmohan Gandhi (the grandson of the Mahatma), was manhand- led, while V.P. Singh's sdrtt-in-law was shot twice in the stomach. Gandhi's constituen- cy was one of the most prominent in the country, and the violence there was witnes- sed by innumerable cameramen and jour- nalists — yet Gandhi refused to criticise the conduct of the poll.

One of India's most senior policemen recently predicted widespread rioting and the loss of at least 1,000 lives. Far from being shocked, many thought the police- man's estimate was too low: 'This time we may lose 10,000 lives in Bihar alone,' said K. K. Tewari, a former Union minister. `Over 2,000 were killed in 1989; 1991 will be much worse.'

Already things have got off to a bad start. Rajghat is one of the most sacred places in India: it marks the site of the cremation of Mahatma Gandhi, the father of the nation. All foreign dignitaries are taken there; all Indian politicians make pilgrimages to it. Yet at the end of March, thugs from the Bahujana Samaj [the Un- touchables'] Party broke in and went on the rampage, shouting slogans, shattering the marble dais, extinguishing the eternal flame. At any other time such an outrage would cause an uproar. But at election time every party knew that it might need the support of the Bahujana Samaj, and not one politician dared voice his disgust at the incident.

Such behaviour has led Indians to grow increasingly disillusioned with their politi- cians. The Indians are sick and tired of the cynicism and corruption which now domin- ate the political process, and they no longer trust anyone. Two Mr Cleans Rajiv Gandhi and V.P. Singh — have left office in disgrace, and polls show that 40 per cent of Indians now have no strong preference for any of the parties; pundits predict that this poll will see the lowest turnout in India's history.

The election is thus a gloomy prospect on a generally gloomy horizon. Only the video chariots seem to have caught the imagination of the people, and they alone look certain to make a lasting and benefi- cial change to the Indian political scene. For, since independence, Indian politics have been dominated by another piece of electioneering hardware: the loudspeaker van. There is barely a bazaar in India which during the run-up to polling is not patrolled by at least three of these machines — often converted rickshaws which blare out rival slogans at such a volume that the message becomes com- pletely inaudible in the distortion.

Now there are high hopes that video chariots will finally mean the end of the line for the loudspeaker van. As Mr Mohammed Shiabuddin, owner of one of Rajpur's leading chai shops, put it: 'This video cart is a very good thing because its films are very short and do not show too much loud singing and dancing and immorality.'