There was not much of a crowd at the tea stall in Daryaganj, an otherwise crowded area of Old Delhi. Less than two dozen people stood around. Of those, half a dozen were from the media. Most had their backs to the television screens. A reporter was trying to engage the tea stall owner, while a camera person was rearranging the cups to compose a better picture. There was pleasant chatter. Paper cups were passed around. Steaming tea was poured out of a kettle. Tired of standing, a group of women, dressed in expensive sarees and wearing BJP caps, went and sat on chairs from where Narendra Modi could neither be seen nor heard.
Also wearing BJP caps were five-year-old Srishti and her four-year-old sister Siya. The girls sat there, slurping on heart shaped hazelnut-flavoured chocolates. "Tell aunty why you have come here," said the woman seated next to them. "Tell her you have come to see Modi uncle."
Poonam Shelar, the girls’ aunt, who works at the Parliament's account department, however, had trouble spelling out her own reasons for attending the event. "Actually, my brother…he's there," she said, looking in the direction of a group of men holding a discussion unconnected to the one taking place on TV. "He forced me to come. He said there's something happening which is linked to Modi ji…I said chalo, I'll have a look."
"We are ma'am's neighbours," said Bhavna Jain, another young woman. "We all live in Gali Number 4 of Daryaganj. We have come to support her." The ma'am she was referring to was Simmi Jain, the local municipal corporator, who was busy giving sound bites to TV channels.
"We have come here to campaign for Narendra Modi ji," she told me later, with a big smile. "Logon ke saath judna hai, chote se lekar bade tak." We must engage with people, big and small.
Almost on cue, a man in dirt-soiled clothes crossed Simmi Jain's path and stepped forward to accept a cup of tea. His name was Mohit Ram. He was a rickshaw puller, a migrant from Darbhanga district of Bihar. "Hum yahan pe Narendra Modi ji ki advertise dekhne aaya hun," he said. "Usmein chai bhi humein mili." I have come to see Narendra Modi's advertisement. I have also got a cup of tea.
“But can you hear him from this distance?”
“So what? I read the papers every day.”
“Why are you crying?” asked a man who stood on the side, watching Mohit Ram speak.
“These are tears of old age…But you could also think of them as tears of happiness,” he said, moving ahead to get closer to the TV screen.
Stepping away from the TV screen was another old man, dressed in worn out trousers, a faded jacket and a cap with holes. His hand shook as he raised the cup of tea to his mouth. A small rucksack was slung over his shoulders. A string of pale beads was visible under his jacket collar.
“Baba, what is your name?”
“Shaheen.”
“What do you do?”
“I'm an artist. I paint.”
“Where do you stay?”
“Bombay”
“What brings you to this city?”
“Work. I had to make some paintings.”
“Where do you live here?”
His reply was indistinct. He did not seem to have a clear address. Perhaps, he lived on the streets like the several thousand other homeless people. But his dignified manner made that a difficult question to ask.
“What brings you here?”
“I am not feeling well. I cannot withstand the cold."
“You came here for a cup of tea?”
“I stopped by to listen to the lecture. A man offered me a cup of tea.”
“Whose lecture is this?”
“The man from Gujarat… What is his name… Modi.”
“What was he saying?”
“Nothing very new.”
The old man laughed. “These people have nothing new to say.”
“Do you vote?”
“They are all thieves. Who do you vote for? It is a waste of time.”
His tea was almost over. His hand was still trembling.
“How is the tea?”
“It's good... What more does a man need?”
“You have a very nice name. Shaheen.”
“It means the golden eagle.”
“If you don't mind, may I ask you something?"
"Go ahead."
"Are you Muslim?”
“Yes, I am.”
“What do you think of Modi?”
“Aane waala time batayega.” Time will tell.
And he laughed again. Then, taking a final sip from the cup, he said, “I have seen with my own eyes… I was in Gujarat at that time...”
“Did you face trouble?”
“No, my language and personality can mislead people into thinking I am one of their own. Sab mujhe apna samajhte hai.”
“Maybe because you are an artist?”
Again, he laughed, and crumpled the cup, now empty.
“Do artists face a lot of financial difficulties?”
“Yes, those who are good, they do. Laxmi aur saraswati ka aapas mein ber hai.”
Laxmi and Saraswati do not get along.
And with this, the wise old man walked away, and the tea party continued.
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Also wearing BJP caps were five-year-old Srishti and her four-year-old sister Siya. The girls sat there, slurping on heart shaped hazelnut-flavoured chocolates. "Tell aunty why you have come here," said the woman seated next to them. "Tell her you have come to see Modi uncle."
Poonam Shelar, the girls’ aunt, who works at the Parliament's account department, however, had trouble spelling out her own reasons for attending the event. "Actually, my brother…he's there," she said, looking in the direction of a group of men holding a discussion unconnected to the one taking place on TV. "He forced me to come. He said there's something happening which is linked to Modi ji…I said chalo, I'll have a look."
"We are ma'am's neighbours," said Bhavna Jain, another young woman. "We all live in Gali Number 4 of Daryaganj. We have come to support her." The ma'am she was referring to was Simmi Jain, the local municipal corporator, who was busy giving sound bites to TV channels.
"We have come here to campaign for Narendra Modi ji," she told me later, with a big smile. "Logon ke saath judna hai, chote se lekar bade tak." We must engage with people, big and small.
Almost on cue, a man in dirt-soiled clothes crossed Simmi Jain's path and stepped forward to accept a cup of tea. His name was Mohit Ram. He was a rickshaw puller, a migrant from Darbhanga district of Bihar. "Hum yahan pe Narendra Modi ji ki advertise dekhne aaya hun," he said. "Usmein chai bhi humein mili." I have come to see Narendra Modi's advertisement. I have also got a cup of tea.
“But can you hear him from this distance?”
“So what? I read the papers every day.”
“Why are you crying?” asked a man who stood on the side, watching Mohit Ram speak.
“These are tears of old age…But you could also think of them as tears of happiness,” he said, moving ahead to get closer to the TV screen.
Stepping away from the TV screen was another old man, dressed in worn out trousers, a faded jacket and a cap with holes. His hand shook as he raised the cup of tea to his mouth. A small rucksack was slung over his shoulders. A string of pale beads was visible under his jacket collar.
“Baba, what is your name?”
“Shaheen.”
“What do you do?”
“I'm an artist. I paint.”
“Where do you stay?”
“Bombay”
“What brings you to this city?”
“Work. I had to make some paintings.”
“Where do you live here?”
His reply was indistinct. He did not seem to have a clear address. Perhaps, he lived on the streets like the several thousand other homeless people. But his dignified manner made that a difficult question to ask.
“What brings you here?”
“I am not feeling well. I cannot withstand the cold."
“You came here for a cup of tea?”
“I stopped by to listen to the lecture. A man offered me a cup of tea.”
“Whose lecture is this?”
“The man from Gujarat… What is his name… Modi.”
“What was he saying?”
“Nothing very new.”
The old man laughed. “These people have nothing new to say.”
“Do you vote?”
“They are all thieves. Who do you vote for? It is a waste of time.”
His tea was almost over. His hand was still trembling.
“How is the tea?”
“It's good... What more does a man need?”
“You have a very nice name. Shaheen.”
“It means the golden eagle.”
“If you don't mind, may I ask you something?"
"Go ahead."
"Are you Muslim?”
“Yes, I am.”
“What do you think of Modi?”
“Aane waala time batayega.” Time will tell.
And he laughed again. Then, taking a final sip from the cup, he said, “I have seen with my own eyes… I was in Gujarat at that time...”
“Did you face trouble?”
“No, my language and personality can mislead people into thinking I am one of their own. Sab mujhe apna samajhte hai.”
“Maybe because you are an artist?”
Again, he laughed, and crumpled the cup, now empty.
“Do artists face a lot of financial difficulties?”
“Yes, those who are good, they do. Laxmi aur saraswati ka aapas mein ber hai.”
Laxmi and Saraswati do not get along.
And with this, the wise old man walked away, and the tea party continued.
