What a curious turn of events! One might even say it's a testament to the unpredictable nature of democracy, or perhaps, a finely honed sense of public relations.
On June 9th, 2024, Prime Minister Modi, much to the astonishment of... well, not everyone, but certainly a fair few, embarked on his third consecutive term. This, frankly, was a scenario few could have conjured in their wildest, or even mildly imaginative, dreams. It's an opportune moment to cast our minds back, not merely to the past eleven years, but to an era when the now-Prime Minister was simply "NaMo," the Chief Minister of Gujarat.
For many of us, active political participation was a quaint notion, something others did. I, for one, maintained a detached, almost academic interest, diligently consuming two newspapers daily and performing the sacred ritual of prime-time news in both Hindi and English. This latter habit, forged in the crucible of my school days, involved perching beside my parents as the state broadcaster’s remarkbly composed newscasters (a stark contrast to today’s decibel-defying screamers) delivered the day's events.
My political stance was a masterful exercise in ambivalence, subscribing to no particular ideology, despite the lingering childhood specters of Jan Sangh, which later morphed into the BJP. My engagement with the electoral process was, shall we say, sporadic. A single vote cast in 1989, and then, after the rather rude shock of Prime Minister Atal Bihari Vajpayee’s unexpected defeat in 2004, a re-engagement in 2009. Since then, it seems I’ve become a veritable polling booth connoisseur, diligently exercising my franchise in every election, be it general or state assembly.
Then came the year 2002, and with it, the Gujarat riots. The subsequent, almost theatrical, vilification of the then-Chief Minister by the media, intellectuals, NGOs, and the venerable Congress party compelled many of us to pose the most impertinent of questions: Why this outrage? Was this India’s inaugural riot? We, after all, boast a rather notorious history of such unfortunate events. The 1984 Sikh massacre, which I witnessed firsthand in Delhi, remains vividly etched in my memory, as does the incumbent Prime Minister Rajiv Gandhi’s rather astonishing apathy. Yet, curiously, he escaped such sustained vilification, even after his later, frankly indefensible, justification of the tragedy.
As the daily ritual of maligning the Gujarat CM commenced, every prime-time bulletin on every channel seemed to be exclusively dedicated to the Gujarat riots, as if the rest of the world had simply ceased to exist. This, for me, was the tipping point. "Where is the evidence?" I began to ask. "Who has it? Why is it never presented?" Only allegations, endlessly looped, as if a faulty tape recorder was stuck on repeat. The demonstrable development in Gujarat was, of course, conveniently ignored.
Driven to distraction by this incessant media drumbeat, I foolishly attempted to articulate my dissent by writing letters to newspaper editors – none of which, predictably, ever saw the light of day. Comments on news channel and newspaper websites were held in perpetual moderation limbo. Social media, a concept as alien as personal space for a Mumbai commuter, was still a distant dream. These were the only available soapboxes, and making my voice heard felt akin to shouting into a gale-force wind.
Then, 26/11 happened. While my attention had been almost morbidly fixated on the media’s peculiar gymnastics, this terror attack and its aftermath deepened my already considerable disgust for the incumbent government and its coalition leader. Corruption, it seemed, had reached an art form, and the media, well, their co-option was as subtle as a brass band at a funeral.
Around 2009, the nascent seeds of social media began to sprout in India, and gradually, we, the digitally disenfranchised, found our way onto these platforms. Twitter, despite its initially baffling 140-character straitjacket, emerged as the champion. We adapted, learning to express ourselves with surprising efficacy within these belittling limitations. By 2010, a burgeoning, albeit largely independent, mass of users, without a unified agenda, coalesced around a singular objective: to usher in a new government in the upcoming 2014 general elections. Our focus remained stubbornly fixed on the media and its purveyors. We were, in essence, tilting at windmills, unaware of the grander design unfolding. The sole aim was to dislodge the incumbents. We were, after all, not "active" in politics, merely individual contributors to a collective whisper that would soon become a roar.
Then came January 1st, 2012, a date that, in retrospect, seems almost divinely ordained. NaMo, with a stroke of what can only be described as strategic brilliance, descended upon Twitter, following a paltry 170-odd common users. A game-changer, indeed.
The following August, the government, with a timing that seemed almost too perfectly inconvenient, indulged in an act that irrevocably shifted our collective gaze. From that moment on, our focus narrowed to a singular, unwavering objective: ensuring the eviction of the current government and the installation of our chosen leader.
This ambition, once a mere murmur in the digital ether, crystallized into reality on May 16th, 2014, when the general election results were declared. Recounting the subsequent unfolding of events would be, frankly, monotonous, as most of us experienced and witnessed it firsthand.
This nation, it seems, has decided that wax heroes are best left to Madame Tussauds in London, preferring instead to adorn and worship our real heroes. The journey, it seems, is far from over, and we, the newly engaged, are quite unwilling to let it conclude before 2047.
Isn't it fascinating how a collective annoyance can inadvertently pave the way for a political phenomenon?
