Lemonade And A Half-Eaten Pack Of Biscuits

As a female reporter travelling solo through the constituencies of Uttar Pradesh, safety is a constant consideration in the back of your mind. Whether it is sending your live location to family members when going into unknown territories or trying to get back to your accommodation before night falls, we certainly have to take some extra precautions and be more vigilant when venturing out on the ground as compared to our male counterparts. However, despite the ever-present safety threat each time I step onto the field, the satisfaction and contentment I get from interacting with people—who mostly just want to be heard—is unmatchable.

Last week, as I travelled to Karpiya village in Barabanki, the stench of sewer water flooding the roads hit my nostrils before the scent of the surrounding peppermint farms. Despite the residents’ struggles to afford two meals a day, the firsthand hospitality I experienced from people I had never met before and who wanted nothing in return moved me deeply.

Dalit farmer Bhulai invited me into his home to cool off after I spent the day talking to the villagers about their issues, under the scorching sun. “Bitiya, achha wala chadar lao,” he called out to his 19-year-old daughter, Savitri, who quickly brought a crimson bedsheet with golden lace sewn around the edges and laid it on the bare wooden bed. “Ab baith jaiye,” he smiled and asked me to sit.

While in another part of the village, as I spoke with women who talked about their issues of farming and rising prices, my eyes wandered to the mango trees laden with green Langda aam, above us. I casually mentioned that Langda was my favourite breed, and the next minute, one of the women had her teenage son climb the tree. He swiftly jumped from branch to branch, plucking mangoes and tossing them into his mother's saree, which she held out beneath the tree. With the mangoes not having ripened, she made sure to give me the recipe of the mango chutney I could make with the raw mangoes and offered her husband’s phone number in case I forgot the steps or ingredients and wanted to reconfirm.

In Kaushambi’s Charwa village where a group of six farmers had gathered under a neem tree to discuss politics, one of them rushed home to fetch us a refreshment when he learnt we had travelled all the way from Lucknow. He returned with lemonade in a Pepsi Bottle with the label peeling off along with a half-eaten pack of Parle-G biscuits.

The hospitality wasn’t limited to just the residents of Kaushambi. In an unusual but pleasant experience, as I sat in the drawing room of a Kaushambi candidate, his father, who is also a political heavyweight in the area strolled in and greeted me with a “namaste”. He ensured if I sat comfortably and told me his son wouldn’t be too long. He gave me an apologetic smile and said they didn’t have an air conditioner in the drawing room. It was only when he left did I find out who he was. “Yeh toh sahab the,” one of the party workers said in a hushed voice.

The candidate who had asked me to meet him at 9 am came in a few minutes after, leaving a congregation of people he had to address because he had made a time commitment to me, and then apologised for keeping me waiting those few minutes. As a journalist who has interviewed several other candidates and politicians during these elections, it was a welcome change not to be following politicians’ convoys for three hours just to get three minutes of interview time. This experience showed me a different crop of politicians who are becoming increasingly approachable.