‘How can I take his name?’ asked the burqa-clad woman in a shocked whisper. ‘It is written on that slip of paper which I gave you before you left the room just now.’
Sandeep looked down at the slip of paper, then once more at the voting list. ‘Fakhruddin? You are Fakhruddin’s wife? From the village Noorpur Khurd?’
‘Yes, yes.’
‘You have four children, don’t you?’
‘Yes, yes, yes.’
‘Out !’ said Sandeep sternly. He had already ascertained that the real woman in question had two children. Strictly speaking, he should have handed the woman over to the police, but he didn’t feel her offence merited such stern action. Only once had he had recourse to the police in this election. That had been a few days earlier when a drunken man in Rudhia had threatened a member of his polling party and had tried to tear up a copy of the electoral rolls.
Sandeep enjoyed being away from Brahmpur. His work in the Department of Mines was dull and desk-bound compared to his earlier responsibilities out in the subdivision. This election work – though for the most part also performed at a desk – provided a refreshing respite, and he got to see once again the areas that, for all their backwardness, he had grown to feel such affection for. He looked around the room at a torn map of India and a chart of the Hindi alphabet. The polling station happened to be in a local school.
There were sounds of an argument from the adjoining classroom, where the men’s booth was located. Sandeep got up to find out what the matter was and was faced with an unusual sight. A beggar who had no hands was intent on casting his vote, and on doing so unaided by anyone. He refused to be accompanied into the curtained area, insisting that the officer would reveal whom he had voted for. The polling officer was arguing with him, but to no avail, and the flow of voters had halted outside the classroom while voices rose hotly from within. The beggar said that the polling officer should fold his ballot-paper for him and put it between his teeth. Then he himself would go behind the curtain and insert it in the box of his choice.
‘I can’t do that,’ said the officer.
‘Why not?’ insisted the beggar. ‘Why should I let you come in with me? How do I know you are not one of the Nawab Sahib’s spies? Or the Minister’s?’ he added hastily.
Sandeep made a quiet gesture to the polling officer, indicating that he should allow the man’s request. The beggar performed his electoral duty for both Parliament and the Legislative Assembly. When he emerged for the second time, he gave the officer a contemptuous snort. The officer was quite miffed.
‘Wait a second,’ said another officer. ‘We forgot to mark you with the ink.’
‘You’ll recognize me if you see me again,’ said the beggar. ‘Yes, but you might try to vote somewhere else. It’s a rule. Everyone has to have their left forefinger marked.’
The beggar snorted again. ‘Find my left forefinger,’ he said.
The entire polling party appeared to be held at bay by one man. ‘I have the answer to that,’ Sandeep told his officer with a smile, turned to a page of his instructions, and read out:
‘Any reference in this rule or in rule 23 to the left fore-finger of an elector shall, in the case where the elector has his left fore-finger missing, be construed as a reference to any other finger of his left hand, and shall, in the case where all the fingers of his left hand are missing, be construed as a reference to the fore-finger or any other finger of his right hand, and shall, in the case where all his fingers of both the hands are missing, be construed as a reference to such extremity of his left or right arm as he possesses.’
He dipped the glass rod into the phial of ink, and smiled weakly at the beggar, who, defeated by the labyrinthine brains of the Raj-trained drafters of the Ministry of Law, held out his left stump with very bad grace.
Polling was fairly brisk. By noon, about three in every ten names on the voting list had been crossed off. After an hour’s break for lunch came the second four-hour voting period. By the time the polls closed at five, fifty-five per cent or so of those eligible to vote at that polling station had cast their votes. This represented a very good turnout, Sandeep thought. He knew from his experience of the last few days that – contrary to what he had expected – the urban turnout in most areas was lower than the rural one.
At five o’clock, the school gates were closed, and signed paper slips were given to those already in the queue. When they too had cast their votes, the slits of the ballot-boxes were closed with a paper seal, and stamped with a red seal of lac. The polling agents of the various candidates added their own seals. Sandeep made arrangements for the ballot-boxes to be locked in the schoolroom overnight and posted a guard over them. The next day these boxes, along with others, were taken under the care of the SDO of Salimpur to the Collectorate at Rudhia, where they were locked up, together with ballot-boxes that had begun to arrive from all over the district, in the government treasury.