“Who are you voting for?” he asked me with great seriousness, as though the future of the nation rested delicately between his teacup and my answer.
“I was thinking,” I said, “of voting for whoever will stop the unnecessary concretising down my road.”
He looked at me with pity. Not anger. Not disagreement. Just pity. As though I had completely missed the point of democracy.
Because, you see, we no longer vote for roads, water, education, or hospitals. Those are minor details. Side plots. Background music. The real script of our elections has been rewritten. One question dominates the stage, dressed in loud colours and waving from every banner.
“What is your religion?”
And thus begins the Great Election Religion Tamasha.
Drums beat. Speeches fly. Promises rise like fireworks and disappear just as quickly. Leaders shout themselves hoarse, not about how many jobs they will create, but about how many enemies from other faiths they will expose. And we, the audience, sit clapping, cheering, forwarding messages, feeling deeply involved in a drama where the ending was written long ago.
Because when the curtain falls, something remarkable happens.
The poor remain poor.
The rich grow richer.
And a fresh batch of politicians quietly joins the billionaire club.
It is almost magical.
You start with a candidate who arrives humbly, shaking hands, touching feet, speaking of sacrifice and service. You meet him in a year, and he is surrounded by security, moving in cars that cost more than the homes of the people who voted for him. His children study abroad. His assets have multiplied. His speeches, however, remain exactly the same.
“Your religion is under threat.”
And we nod. Because it is easier to feel outraged than to feel responsible.
Nobody asks, “What happened to the 15 lakhs you promised?” Nobody asks, “Why is economy slowing down?” Nobody even asks, “How did you become so rich so quickly?” Those are uncomfortable questions. Dangerous questions. Questions that require thinking.
Religion, on the other hand, requires only emotion.
And emotion is the easiest currency to trade during elections.
So we fight among ourselves. We argue at dining tables. We lose friendships over debates that change nothing. We become soldiers in battles that do not belong to us. Meanwhile, somewhere quietly, contracts are signed, deals are made, fortunes are built.
And the Tamasha continues.
Sometimes I wonder what would happen if, just once, we changed the script. If the next time someone asked us who we were voting for, we replied, “The one who can show me results, not just build mandirs.”
Imagine the shock. Imagine the silence.
Because the day we stop asking about religion, and start asking about accountability, the Tamasha will end.
And then without any doubt, the story of our elections will finally change…!