While covering elections, self-doubt has been my constant companion. In Bihar, where I had gone to cover the recent Assembly polls , certain questions would haunt me every evening: Was I asking the right questions? Was I finding enough diversity in terms of caste, sex and religion to ensure that I had covered the entire spectrum of voters? And so on.
Those who knew I was out in the field would text me that question that reporters are accustomed to being asked: “So, who do you think is winning?” And that would fill me with new questions and doubts: Does reporting also include predicting the winner? How can I be audacious enough to extrapolate the voices from one part of the State to the entire electorate? Would it make me a lesser reporter if I conceded that I wasn’t sure?
Also read | In Bihar, the subdued narrative of the silent voter
During my interviews, I often found voters holding forth eloquently on issues like institutionalised corruption, the incremental growth of infrastructure, the shortage of teachers in schools and of medicines in hospitals. But the moment I asked them about their voting preference or posed a vague question about which way the political wind was blowing, most of them would clam up.
The dominant castes, who are vocal even otherwise, would provide answers. But the most popular reply was, “ Dekhenge jo jeet raha hoga usi ko vote de denge (We will vote for the one who is winning)”.
However, many others would stand silently in a corner, keenly listening to those speaking but their faces giving away nothing. In this election, it was these silent voters who made the difference. There were a few instances where such voters would walk up to me as I was leaving to whisper that they did not agree with the popular perception. But that was all. Yes, I could have used the law of averages: listen to the vocal voices and record the silences to join the dots. At several places I was asked whether I was from a ‘survey agency’. And that made me wonder: Is a reporter a mere collator of opinions, statistics and preferences?
Also read | Myths and the reality of election forecasts
The answer to some of these questions came to me on the last day. On the way to the airport, for one last round of vox pop at Kishanganj district, I stopped at Muzzabari village. The road was essentially a dirt path. I met a 23-year-old called Rafeena Khatum who had a 20-day-old son in her arms and a three-year-old clinging on to her saree. Her eldest was playing at a neighbour’s house, she said. She and I could barely converse. She spoke Surjapuri, a Seemanchali dialect more akin to Bangla, while I spoke Hindi. The infant in her arms had small red rashes all over his body. I asked her if she had taken him to the local dispensary or ASHA centre. She said ‘no’. Her husband was a tailor who worked at a garment factory in Mumbai. He had gone back to the metropolis once the travel restrictions were lifted. All three children were born at home with only Rafeena’s sister-in-law assisting her during childbirth. There were no modern medicines, no doctor, no visits from ASHA workers. It is not as if this is unique to Bihar or rare. But it still shocked me deeply. “I didn’t have complications, so women like me don’t need to visit hospitals. And who has the money anyway?” she said.
Election reportage is as much about gauging the political mood in a place as it is a rendezvous with the many different faces of India.
