I had obstinately refused to vote and vigorously defended my right to not vote. This time, however, with a new candidate, a columnist of decent repute, contesting from Mysore, I had half a mind to vote and arrived in my hometown from Bangalore on the night preceding the polling day. Once the public meetings and rallies cease to be held, 48 hours before the election, the party cadres start knocking on doors, handing out pamphlets for one last time, exhorting voters to choose their party's candidate. While walking this last long mile, the cadres also hand out small slips having the details of where one is to vote, something they themselves glean from the electoral rolls published by the Election Commission of India. During every past election, I had consigned both the pamphlets and the slips to the bin. Now, I gathered the pamphlets and the slips to see where I might have to go to vote. To my disappointment, I did not find a slip with my name on it, though everyone else at home had received the relevant information. I shook my head at the EC's inefficiency and proceeded to watch the late-night broadcast of mid-week football from Europe. I no longer had to worry about being up early to beat the rush at the polling booth.
The next morning, my neighbour, a regular voter who usually has a celebratory spring in his step while heading to the booth, had voted by the time I woke up. Having learnt from my mother that I had not got the slip, he had offered to check the rolls at the booth for my name. He did and was told that my name was not in the voters' list. I decided to brush it off and read the newspaper and watch the live television updates about celebrities turning up to vote, displaying their inked finger, and then mouthing cliches about why everyone had to vote. That the voting percentage in Mysore was pretty low at the time made me feel better: many others too weren't voting, or had been denied the opportunity.
Meanwhile, my uncle, a septuagenarian who dutifully casts his vote each time, was hamstrung by an unexpected illness. Yet, when an acquaintance had offered to take him to the booth, my uncle was eager to vote. Unfortunately, he too had not received a slip, though my aunt had. Having learnt from the papers about how you could get details of your polling station by using your EPIC number, and with the help of another uncle of mine, he had found out where he had to go to assert his choice. My mother was visiting my aunt and uncle around the same time, and our driver took my uncle to the polling station. There, he was again told that his name did not figure in the electoral rolls. Our mostly nosy, but, at times, street-smart driver intervened, asking the officials to let him have a look at the entire list. He found my uncle's name, and my uncle voted. My driver maintains that the rolls had been hidden deliberately, but given his passion for the hyperbole, I'm more willing to deem it an oversight. His deliberate mischief theory is based on associating names with a caste, and the caste with a party. Keeping certain individuals from exercising their franchise, thus, would be a ploy to stunt the vote count of a particular party, to which the allegiance of these individuals is extrapolated on the basis of their names.
Anyway, on learning of my uncle's voting saga, I decided to use the SMS facility to find out if I was registered to vote. I received an instant response with details of the designated polling booth - a school, a kilometer away from my home. To be sure, I visited the EC website for Karanataka, and downloaded the electoral rolls put up on the site as PDF documents. I found my name. Now, I was really curious to see what would transpire if I were to go to the booth. Would they tell me, as my uncle had been told, that my name was not in the list? A part of me wished they would. I had the SMS from the EC on my phone and my EPIC. I put in the toll-free number for electoral complaints in case I were to be turned away by the officials and started for the booth. It would be interesting to see how the EC would respond to such an egregious misdeed on the part of its officials, wouldn't it?
A ten minute walk in the 3 PM sun, and I was at the school. There were a couple of guys at the lobby directing voters to the rooms that had the EVMs. I asked them for and followed their directions, and reached the LKG classroom that housed the EVM. On entering the room, to the right, I saw a table, and three ladies sitting behind it. The one who sat rightmost asked me for the serial number corresponding to my name in the list. I stated it based on what I had received in the SMS. She called out the number, so that the one next to her could make an entry in the register as well as fill a slip. I was asked to go to the lady in the middle, who drew a thick line on my left thumb, had me sign in the register, and handed me the slip she had appropriately populated. I was to hand the slip to the last of the trinity, who then pointed me to the EVM. I pushed the button and saw a small light go on to reflect my choice, accompanied by a beep. The indicators persisted for a few seconds and then stopped. That was it. I was surprised at the brevity of it all. And, despite the lack of drama, I returned with an awe for the amazing job the EC was doing. The fluency of the process was its standout feature. I was happy that I voted, not in the belief that my vote is crucial to the success of the candidates battling it out, but, because I got a taste of the EC's efficiency.
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