“It’s been such a long time since I last took an inked finger selfie,” Wife said, holding up a finger. It was Friday, the night before voting day in New Delhi.
“That’s because Lok Sabha elections happen only once in five years,” I said, shovelling a spoonful of curd rice into my mouth. “And for your information, that’s the wrong finger.”
We were at the dinner table, discussing the logistics for our participation in the Dance of Democracy.
“You sure mobile phones aren’t allowed?” she asked again. “Nandini went to Mumbai to vote, she got back yesterday and said no one checked her for a phone.”
“Shouldn’t you be more focused on the actual election issues instead of obsessing over selfies and mobile phones? Do you remember the name and party symbol of your candidate?”
“I don’t have time to memorise all that information,” she said. “Won’t they be written on the EVM? You just have to click on it, right?”
“Press, not click,” I said. “God save Indian democracy.”
“Anyway, I don’t want to bake in the sun at 10 in the morning. Let’s reach by 5.30 a.m. so that we are back by 6.”
“Madam, the polling centre opens only at 7 a.m.”
“There’s a heat wave predicted tomorrow! This is terrible planning,” she said. “Let’s reach the booth by 6.30 a.m. at least. We should be first in queue. Set the alarm for 6.”
Sleep mode
Now, trying to wake her up any time before 8 a.m. is like starting an old Lambretta scooter — it takes a long time, and your patience will be severely tested by multiple relapses into sleep mode. I didn’t want to throw away my Saturday morning REM sleep for nothing. In any case, the polling centre was just two minutes from our place.
“I’ve set it for 6 a.m. sharp,” I said, setting it on my phone for quarter to seven.
The next morning, to my utter shock, not only did Wife wake up to the alarm, she was ready in five minutes.
“I know you cheated on the alarm,” she said, as we walked out. “It’s already 7. There are so many people on the road. If there’s a long queue, you’ve had it.”
“Arrey, these are morning walkers — they are not necessarily going for voting.”
“We’ll see,” she said, picking up her pace to pull ahead of a slow-moving gaggle of retirees. As we turned a corner, we saw half a dozen couples hurrying towards the government school-turned-polling centre. Wife, transformed into an Olympic walker, overtook all of them, while I scrambled to keep up.
Thankfully, the line wasn’t long — five in the ‘Gents’ line, four in the ‘Ladies’. The two queues approached the booth from opposite sides. In about 25 minutes, Wife and I found ourselves face to face at the entrance. By then, our lines had grown by about 20 people. “The difference between us and them,” Wife said, nodding at those behind us, “is that they are people who decided to have tea before starting.”
Her turn came first, and a few minutes later, I went in. A woman checked my name, marked a cross on a register, and asked for my hand. She daubed the iconic ink on my finger and directed me to the holy cubicle.
I was in and out in less than a minute, and Wife was waiting outside. I proudly held out my forefinger. She looked down at her own hand and gasped, “Oh damn!”
“What happened?”
“They haven’t inked my finger!”
“How is that possible?”
“That woman forgot!”
“You didn’t remind her?”
“Me remind — what?” She was too upset for words.
“But your name was on the roll? You voted, right?”
“You saw me!”
“Then relax, it doesn’t matter.”
“Of course, it matters! Now no one will believe I voted!”
“That’s ridiculous,” I said.
Proof of vote
But Wife was right. The next day we met Nandini, her friend and Insta rival, for lunch, and she wouldn’t believe her.
“Who did you vote for?” Nandini said. “Ermenegildo Zegna?”
“I swear I voted,” Wife said.
“Look at this,” Nandini brandished her inked forefinger. “Let me see yours.”
“I’m telling you, they forgot to ink my finger!”
“Yeah, right!”
“Sampath is a trusted journalist. Ask him.” Wife turned to me. “You tell her. Didn’t I vote?”
For some reason, at that precise moment, my inner Supreme Court woke up. “I’m sorry,” I said, “A hands-off approach has to be adopted.”
“You’re throwing me under the bus?” Wife was incredulous.
“The voting is over,” I said. “The matter is now infructuous.”
The author of this satire is Social Affairs Editor, The Hindu.
