K Raveendran

The scene at the Central Committee meeting of the CPI-M the other day in Delhi ran like this: the committee members are huddled together, pens poised, brows furrowed and looking askance at how and why the sand under the feet of their party got washed away in the Lok Sabha elections in the only remaining backyard of the Marxist party. Mash the Great, the intellectual capitalist of the Kerala party, made his weighty exposition of what exactly happened: ‘We lost because they won’. Fair enough. Only resident psephologist film maker Sreeni could have bettered it.

The committee wasn’t entirely convinced. In a stunning display of bureaucratic acrobatics and obliviousness, the members decided to embark on a soul-searching expedition to unearth the mysteries behind their colossal failure in Kerala. The CPI-M’s post-election analysis is like a tragicomedy – tragic for them, hilarious for the rest of us.

Except for the CC and other manifest forms of party leadership, everyone knew what was coming. Those who couldn’t read the writing on the wall had worn a veil over their eyes that conveniently blocked the reality because it soothed their eyes, and served their materialistic demands. Chief minister Pinarayi Vijayan’s famous intemperance, indulgence, abrasiveness, and scant respect for the rule of law couldn’t have produced any other result. There was no rocket science involved.

For the CC, it’s not so much a search for answers as it is an important exercise in political theatrics; the disconnect between leadership posturing and grassroots realities was so glaring only the ardent devotees could have missed it. But despite Vijayan’s stellar track record in rattling cages and making headlines for all the wrong reasons, some within the party seemed shockingly surprised by the election outcome.

The reality is only beginning to sink in now.

The CC move for a deeper study is like dissecting a fish to understand why it’s not climbing trees. If anything needed a study, it is perhaps the extent to which prime minister Narendra Modi’s face on the BJP election posters resembled that of Sreenarayana Guru so as to trick the Sreenarayaneeya vote bank that sustained the Marxist party for so long into voting for BJP. To boot, we have it on the authority of Cherthala’s wholesale dealer of Ezhava votes that there has been such a shift, although he attributes it to the Pinarayi leadership’s -mis-adventurous courtship of the minority communities.

Sitaram Yechury and his committee colleagues had no choice but to nod in sombre agreement with whatever Pinarayi Vijayan said and did before, during and after the election, given that he had such stranglehold over party finances, rendering them little more than glorified interns in his grand political opera, the central theme of which turns out to be filial love. With the central leaders beholden to Pinarayi for their salaries and perks, their relationship was more akin to that between employee and employer rather than leader and follower.

Yechury and company can’t even go on strike against their paymaster, for that is the sole proprietorship of the party’s militant trade union CITU, of which they can’t be expected to be members. That would mean they ditch their glorified titles and apply for ordinary membership of CITU and start from scratch, un unreasonably high sacrifice to make.

I feel particularly distressed at their plight as we have had a somewhat shared past. Yechury, Prakash Karat, Brinda Karat and Maneka Gandhi were my contemporaries in JNU and I had written any number of posters for Karat and Yechury when they contested the JNU election. It is a different matter that it was my passion for poster writing, which continues to be so even today, than an affiliation with their political ideology that landed me in their camp.

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K Raveendran

The Indian electorate, that mystical blend of wisdom and mischief, have done it again. They have yet again proclaimed they can never be taken for granted.

Picture this: silk kurta-clad rulers strutting through constituencies like peacocks on a catwalk. Their arrogance defies both physics and good taste. They believe they’re heaven-sent, not elected. And their entourage? A trail of sycophants thicker than Kerala’s monsoon air. These folks have more entitlement than a royal wedding cake.

But wait, there’s more! These egomaniacs treat public funds like their personal piggy banks. SUVs with flashing lights? They promised the moon and delivered potholes, their speeches filled with more bluster than a monsoon windstorm. They treated dissent with the grace of a bull in a china shop, public outrage meeting with pronouncements about ‘khan market gangs’ and ‘anti-nationals’

But the electorate have a way of humbling even the most arrogant! Democracy, that messy, unpredictable business, has a funny way of turning the tables. Voters, those pesky little things with minds of their own, eventually tire of the gilded cage these politicians build around themselves. The flashing lights lose their lustre, the empty promises curdle like split milk, and the overinflated egos become nothing more than comical hot air balloons, ready to be pricked by the sharp needle of reality.

Prick is what they did with Narendra Modi’s arrogance and body language, which had a complete disconnect with the humble origins that he often touted to win public sympathy. His election campaigns, particularly in the latter rounds of the polling, spewed hatred and the voters caught up with him. While in 2019 he had won the hearts and minds of Muslim women by outlawing triple talaq, this time around he disparaged their motherhood and paid the price.

It is no coincidence that in his Varanasi constituency, his majority was cut to size to less than a couple of lakhs, compared to what was garnered by Rahul Gandhi, for whom he missed no opportunity to despise, in both family turf Rae Bareli and newly-found love of Wayanad.

Ditto the case with Smriti Irani, who had become the poster girl of intolerance in the Modi government. Kishori Lal Sharma, who was described by BJP men as the ‘peon of Gandhi family’ turnout to be her giant killer.

Remember Indira Gandhi experience in her family turf post-Emergency. Now it’s Modi’s turn to sip the bitter brew. The voters have given NDA a truncated mandate to continue the good things Modi has done in his ten-year tenure, but have put him on probation: a situation he could not have imagined even in his scariest nightmare. Not used to any questioning, he now finds himself sandwiched between the most fickle-minded Nitish Kumar, who hops from one coalition to another with remarkable ease, and Chandrababu Naidu, the man from the south whose DNA has been known to carry a genetic disdain for Modi’s old ways. The swearing in of Modi 3.0 has left enough hints about how Narendra Damodardas Modi will have to be a much-mellowed down version of his previous self.

Whenever the need arises, the Indian electorate has shown a high degree of political maturity, evolving from the days of patronage politics to a discerning electorate. A big salute, particularly to the rustic villagers of UP.

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Party is withering away its goals, accountability, and its very ability to comprehend anything definitive

K Raveendran

Pinarayi Vijayan and his fellow comrades have achieved a lofty Marxist ideal: the withering away of the state, which Engels had envisaged as the ultimate success of socialism, but could not live to see happen.

In the glorious land of Kerala, where the red flag flutters proudly and coconuts fall with rhythmic certainty, we stand on the cusp of a historic achievement – the state withering away so spectacularly, it might as well be taking a vacation to Singapore!

The comrades have even found a shortcut to do this: make the distinction between state and the party disappear and make the party wither away.

Under Vijayan’s untainted leadership, what remains of the withered party has taken a flight to the neighbouring Tamil Nadu and adopted the identify of a Tamil party, or Dravidian if you will. The CPI-M has two MPs hailing from Tamil Nadu, double the number that the withering party has managed to send to Delhi from Kerala.

Now, some cynics (those capitalist roaches!) might point out that the Kerala government still seems rather robust. Files requesting permits gather dust in bureaucratic purgatory for years, the roads resemble a lunar landscape after a particularly enthusiastic meteor shower, and the promised high-speed internet remains as elusive as an independent-minded police.

But fret not, comrades! This is precisely how the withering works. The party is withering away its goals, accountability, and its very ability to comprehend anything definitive. It’s a withering of a different kind, a withering born of glorious revolutionary… paperwork!

Think of it this way: the less the party does, the less there is for it to do, and hence, the closer it inches towards that sweet oblivion of non-existence. It leaves party workers free to do what they like and even skip ‘steady’ classes, the vital line of communication between the leadership and the cadre. Like that prizewinning pumpkin at the Onam harvest festival, the party is slowly but surely rotting from the inside out, a testament to the impermanence of all things, even governmental ones.

Of course, there are whispers of corruption, whispers that certain revolutionary comrades and their children may have… enriched themselves a tad during this withering process. But surely, these are just capitalist lies! In a state and party that are withering away, who needs petty things like transparency or pesky checks and balances?

So, let us celebrate this glorious paradox! Let the state and the party wither away, at their own leisurely pace, taking all their glorious inefficiencies with them. For in the end, won’t we, the glorious people, be left to govern ourselves?

We have seen that in operation during the Nava Kerala mission with its famous ‘rescue acts’. In perfect harmony, of course, occasionally punctuated by the joyful sounds of a hartal or two. After all, what’s a revolution without a little disruption?

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So, let the drums roll and trumpets blare, for Indian politics is nothing if not a spectacle of surprises

K Raveendran

The issue of level playing field never came to the fore as it did during the 2024 elections. But it was mostly about political parties fighting out an unequal battle in terms of resources, partisan treatment by the Election Commission, sizzling summer heat at some parts while the heavens open up to drown whole swathes of land in flood waters in the rest. A glaring case of absolutely no level playing field has, however, gone unnoticed: the choice of prime minister.

Narendra Modi, the master illusionist, has pulled a third term out of his hat as effortlessly as a rabbit. The whispers in the corridors of power suggest he’s not stopping there; he’s got more terms up his sleeve than a magician has doves. And why not? After all, in the great magic show of democracy, who doesn’t love a good encore?

But then spare a thought for a whole troupe of political acrobats, each more eager than the other to take the spotlight and stake his claim. Rahul Gandhi keeps dropping his pins; Arvind Kejriwal, the tightrope walker, is balancing promises on a thread as thin as his muffler; Mamata Banerjee, the lion tamer, is roaring louder than her beasts; and Akhilesh Yadav, the clown prince, is honking his nose to the tune of development and jobs. But Modi is mercilessly walking away with the trophy as if there is no one else in the scene.

A political derby

Imagine a political derby where every horse has an equal shot at the finish line, where the race is not just about who has the fastest steed or the shiniest chariot, but who has the most compelling story to tell the electorate. Let’s not forget that the essence of democracy is competition, even if accompanied by cooperation, without which there is no reckoning as far as the INDIA Bloc is concerned.

Perhaps, a novel idea—a lottery for the Prime Minister’s seat —can do the trick, eminently and seamlessly as the roadside magician pulls out rabbits out of his hat. It may sound as audacious as it is absurd, but think of the days when Narasimha Rao and Deve Gowda stumbled into the role like two gentlemen who took a wrong turn and ended up in the prime ministerial suite.

Rao had packed up everything for a homeward journey, when suddenly the mantle fell on him out of the blue, although he had apparently heard with disbelief from an astrologer that he had more business to do in Delhi.

Strong audience watches with bated breath

And Gowda, the humble farmer who ploughed his way to the top, proving that sometimes, all you need to lead a nation is a stroke of luck and a strong cup of filter coffee, with his favourite ragi mudda, so tasteless it can only be savoured with a mouthful of gravy from the spicy Chettinad chicken curry.

The lottery idea has its charm, doesn’t it? Each candidate gets a ticket, and the nation holds a draw as a billion plus strong audience watches with bated breath. Will it be a seasoned politician or a dark horse who emerges victorious? Will the wheel of fortune spin in favour of experience, or will it land on a wild card, ready to shuffle the deck of Indian politics?

So, let the drums roll and the trumpets blare, for Indian politics is nothing if not a spectacle of surprises. And in this circus, whether you’re the ringmaster or the clown, every performance is a chance to steal the show. As the political lottery spins, may the odds be ever in favour of democracy, where every ticket—be it held by a stalwart or an underdog—holds the promise of a tomorrow that’s just and fair for all.

As Modi watches from the sidelines, a smirk playing on his lips, he knows that in the grand illusion of power, it’s not the luck of the draw that wins the game; it’s the magician who controls the deck.

 And as for the rest? Well, they’re just part of the show, adding colour and confusion to the greatest show on earth, that is the Indian elections.

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K Raveendran

The following is an account of an imaginary comrade visiting Singapore, provided by an imaginary reporter purportedly accompanying the comrade and his family:

Firebrand Comrade X (apologies to all those who are named X) puffed out his chest as his plane touched down in the gleaming metropolis of Singapore. Here, in this capitalist paradise, he would witness the excesses of untamed free markets firsthand. He imagined marble floors polished to a mirror sheen, overflowing fountains sculpted from solid gold, and businessmen swimming in pools of melted Swiss bank accounts.

His first stop was a flashy casino. Comrade X, a staunch opponent of bourgeois frivolity, entered with a scowl, determined to expose the moral decay at the heart of Singapore’s success. He marched towards a slot machine, the garish lights assaulting his revolutionary sensibilities. But before he could unleash a tirade against the evils of gambling, he found himself inexplicably sinking ankle-deep into a plush red carpet. Furious, he bellowed, “What is this treachery? Are you trying to drown a visiting dignitary in a pool of ill-gotten gains?” Security guards, impeccably dressed and unnervingly polite, rushed over. “A most unusual malfunction, sir,” one apologized, ushering him out with practiced efficiency.

Next, Comrade X, eager for a taste of the people’s struggle in this capitalist den, decided to visit a hawker centre, a haven for the common folk. He envisioned grimy stalls overflowing with dubious meats and overpriced vegetables. Instead, he was greeted by a dazzling array of culinary delights, the air fragrant with exotic spices. He approached a stall selling satay, his stomach rumbling in defiance of his communist principles. Just as he reached for a skewer, the floor beneath him vanished. With a yelp, he landed in a shallow puddle of what smelled suspiciously like chili sauce. Spluttering and red-faced, he was helped up by a group of bemused hawkers. “Wet floor, comrade?” one chuckled.

Humiliated but determined, Comrade X decided to visit the famed Gardens by the Bay, a testament to Singapore’s decadent horticultural pursuits. He envisioned monstrous, genetically modified flora, reeking of artificial fertilizers and devoid of natural beauty. Instead, he found himself surrounded by breathtaking super-trees, bathed in the soft glow of the setting sun. Mesmerized, he took a step forward, only to find his foot meet with a surprising resistance. He looked down to see a perfectly manicured lawn, not a single blade out of place. Confused, he took another step, and another, each step met by the same invisible barrier. He was trapped, walking on a seemingly solid surface that was demonstrably not.

Suddenly, a memory from his childhood flickered in his mind. His grandfather, a man steeped in the tales of Mahabharata, would often regale him with stories of the Pandavas’ magnificent palace in Indraprastha. There was a hall, he recalled, built by the celestial architect Maya, where the floor appeared solid but was actually an illusion, filled with water. The Kaurava princes, Duryodhana and his brothers, unfamiliar with the palace’s intricacies, had famously fallen prey to this trickery, much to the amusement of the Pandavas.

A cold sweat broke out on Comrade X’s forehead. Was Singapore, with its invisible water hazards and deceptive solidity, playing a similar trick on him? Was this a capitalist ploy to mock his communist ideology? The more he thought about it, the more the parallel seemed plausible. He left the Gardens by the Bay a broken man, forever haunted by the memory of a trip where reality itself seemed to be a product of the free market. Perhaps, he mused on the flight back, there was something to be said for a system where the water was demonstrably wet, and the floors, refreshingly solid, even if they weren’t built by celestial architects. Something to try back home, Comrade X thought, and perhaps more importantly an investment opportunity for the Malayali diaspora (NRKs) amidst half a dozen global conferences.

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K Raveendran

The biggest joke or hoax of the campaign for the 2024 Lok Sabha elections is the CPI-M advertisement on television channels claiming that if India is to survive, the Left’s voice has to reverberate in Delhi. Going by whatever has happened in the 17th Lok Sabha, where the CPI-M had just three MPs, two of them from the communist-weary territory of Dravida land, where the writ of Veera Pandya Kattabomman ran rather than that of Karl Marx, it is indeed a tall claim. Kerala’s only Marxist MP Ariff rarely took the floor for a speech, although over 240 questions were raised in his name.

The bigger picture is that the Kerala MPs, barring perhaps one or two, never had a voice in the outgoing house. N K Premachandran was one, but he was no K P Unnikrishnan, the former telecom minister in VP Singh ministry, who, unlike our present generation of parliamentarians, could offer a hundred variants between ‘yes’ and ‘no’ as an answer. The Kollam MP was no great communicator, although he did manage to make some noises, something that caught the eye of PM Modi and won him the invitation for an impromptu lunch at parliament house, his detractors seeing it as a saffron proclivity and even making it a campaign plank.

Kerala MPs have been perennially tongue-tied in Delhi, perhaps posing a challenge as tough as the capital’s inhospitable weather. Parliament has excellent translation infrastructure so that a member can make a speech in any of the recognised languages. But to make a real mark, one has to speak either in Hindi or English, both of which are in steep deficit as far as the Kerala MPs are concerned. Placards have been doing much of the duty — at the rate of one placard equals a thousand words. In fact, the credit for introducing the placard culture in parliament must clearly go to our MPs. It is a different matter that they have had to face the music over this, including punitive actions such as suspension from the house.

But once upon a time Kerala had its golden era in Delhi, when legends like A K Gopalan ruled the roost in the house. AKG was too fiery to be tied down by factors such as language, occasion or place. He roared like a lion and the house listened in rapt attention. He made a monumental speech in parliament after Indira Gandhi imposed Emergency, but it remained unreported due to the censorship that prevailed at the time. Those who had access to the transcript felt their blood boiling in their veins, similar to what the great poet Vallathol wrote while describing the spirit of nationalism and love for Kerala.

For the record-minded, we also had an MP with the same initials, but standing at the other end of the spectrum: A K Antony, who was the total antithesis of his illustrious predecessor. Antony was totally at sea when it came to communicating; he did not appear to be comfortable even with his mother tongue, not to speak of the alien English or north Indian Hindi. In the eighties, when Antony was made the AICC spokesman, all Delhi newspapers changed their AICC beat, putting Malayalees in charge. So much for their confidence in Antony’s language skills. Obviously, AICC was an important beat and they didn’t want a story missed.

That was also the time when Patriot newspaper was planning to launch an edition in Kerala and I was closely involved. I accompanied my editor in chief R K Mishra for a meeting with Antony in parliament house to seek the Congress party’s support for the idea. I don’t remember if anything tangible came out of the meeting as Antony muttered, stuttered, fumbled and left me humbled, my Mallu ego badly bruised at a fellow countryman’s discomfort, particularly in front of my boss. Thankfully, it was Mishraji who took me to Antony and not the other way around.

The experience was refreshingly different when weeks later I met chief minister Karunakaran in his assembly chamber, along with our Keala correspondent, for the same purpose. Half an acre of land, next to Doordarshan Kendra at Kodappanakkunnu was allotted for the newspaper in a record time of three days. That was the Leader in action! But sadly the newspaper project never took off due to internal politics in the Patriot management.

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A K Antony stood tall, his silver hair catching the golden rays. Beside him, his son, Anil Antony, clad in saffron, exuded confidence, while Nandakumar with his insidious airs played his part exquisitely. K Raveendran It is an infinitely open question as to whether one’s body language is more expressive than the verbal language. While […]

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Without Mincing by K Raveendran

In the murky corridors of power, where shadows and secrets coil like serpents, the tale of the BJP’s electoral bond conquest has unfolded and there can’t be a greater embarrassment for the ruling party and the government at this juncture when voting for parliamentary elections is only a month away. The Supreme Court, resolute and unyielding, has cast its gaze upon this labyrinthine scheme, revealing glimpses of a criminal intent that run through the scheme throughout.

In fact, the revelations about how BJP used the scheme as an extortion tool bring no surprise for those who have long dwelled in the twilight of political machinations. Civil society outfits had unfurled red flags and banners of warning from the very inception of this enigmatic venture. Their prophecy? A deluge of corruption, a torrential downpour that would drown the very foundations of our democracy.

The Election Commission and the Reserve Bank of India raised their voices in unison. The electoral bonds, shrouded in anonymity, were an affront to the very essence of democratic accountability. Unlike the open-handed alms of regular donations, these bonds wore veils of secrecy. The donor’s identity, once a beacon of transparency, now vanished into the abyss.

And so, the Election Commission sounded its clarion call: “Beware, for these bonds shall cloak our political landscape in shadows!” Transparency flickered perilously. The scheme, they warned, harboured the seeds of illicit funding, a serpent coiled to strike at the heart of our electoral process.

The Reserve Bank of India, its brow furrowed with concern, saw beyond the veil. The bearer bonds, seemingly innocuous, harboured a treacherous secret. While the purchaser’s identity stood revealed—a mere pawn in this diabolical game—the intervening figures remained masked, their intentions veiled. The trojan horse had breached the gates.

The RBI had warned of shell companies ruling the roost, and insisted that the contributions come by way of cheques, demand drafts, or digital transactions. But the government prevailed. There have been a number of accomplices in this organised loot, including the State Bank of India, which was mandated to administer the bonds. And all of them stand naked, thanks to the highest level of vigil shown by the Supreme Court.

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