Commentary / Mani Shankar Aiyar

A miracle is being repeated in some one million panchayat
wards around the country

The seat has been reserved for women. At first sight, she seems a slightly unlikely prospect. Her husband, a not much more impressive physical presence, does the talking -- or whatever little there is of talking.

We set out next day, she is in the open jeep, her legs held down by a girl companion, ass if the breeze might blow her away. It is her unexpected stamina that makes me begin to revise my apprehensions. Where I simply fade like a wilted flower in the sun, she is quite unfazed. Through the whole morning and late into the afternoon, she stands rock-like in the blazing sun, her hands ritually folded and her smile well within the bounds of propriety, while the pechaalar (orator) at the mike repetitively calls on the voter to vote for our Congress candidate.

As the sun starts going down, the size of the audience proportionately increases. It seems more appropriate to stand alongside her than be seated in front with the driver. The jeep screeches to a halt in the middle of a village bazaar. A hundred or so curious souls gather around to hear what we have to say. I speak my piece. I end by saying the candidate herself will now say a few words.

She audibly gasps. Apparently, neither she nor anyone else has thought fit to consider letting a woman candidate herself tell the voters why they should vote for her. That, they seem to think, is a man's job. The professional pechaalar has enumerated her virtues and those of her party. Does she have to proclaim these herself?

Nonsense, I hiss, she must speak at least a few words. She turns despairingly towards her husband. I stare at him sternly. He nodes a dumb assent. She manages a few embarrassed sentences. We move on. But as we go, and I insist she follow my little speech with one of her own devising, she gains confidence. Not more than two or three stops on, she is in full oratorical flow. She still cannot help seeking her husband's permission every time I invite her to speak: That is a ritual which will take a while to fade. No matter. For what she has to say is fascinating.

She has been in the party for over 20 years. All that time she has been immersed in the women's wing - the Mahila Congress. There has been little scope for indulging in what her male colleagues deem to be 'politics' - but plenty of time to have walked virtually village to village looking to the needs of her gender. She know half her constituents, the women of the 20 panchayats from where she is seeking election, far more intimately than her male counterpart in Sirkazhi East knows his male voters. I think she can make it; I am not so confident of the man's prospects.

The campaign ends in the wee hours. I have to move on to the next block but think I should make a more material contribution to her campaign before leaving. So, I call her aside and give her a small donation - a fraction of what this column will earn me. She accepts the money gratefully but immediately turns it over to her husband. He is supportive and clearly proud of his wife - although he has some difficulty demonstrating this. But what I have seen in under 24 hours is a woman politician grow from out of a housewife. It is a miracle being repeated in some one million panchayat wards around the country.

No one would have thought to ask Damayanti to contest an election if they had not been constitutionally obligated to do so. After all, she has been around for 20 years, harrying the women of the panchayats where she has done so much good work to vote for a male Congress candidate, careful for reasons of gender propriety to remain slightly off-centre the angle of attention, never thinking of herself as the cynosure of all eyes. It is reservations for women that has brought her centre-stage.