Afew days ago, during the city’s municipal corporation elections, I cast myfirst ever vote.Duringthe run-up to the day of the elections, I was very excited to discover my voterregistration details on the election commission’s website. After all, two of myprevious attempts at registration had failed, and I had no reason to believethat I would succeed with my latest attempt of a few months ago. I felt a senseof victory against all the dark forces that conspire against the registrationof urban middle class voters like me. Politicos of all hues find usunpredictable and unreliable, since we don’t swing to their tunes of region,community and caste, and hence focus their efforts on expanding their baseelsewhere. Bureaucracy ‘stiffs’ see us as politically apathetic and individuallypowerless, and hence direct their energies to other registration applicationsbrought in by eager politicos.Butthis time, I was going to cast my vote. Na-na-n-na-na.Onthe day of the elections I searched the website again. Half-suspecting that mydetails would’ve mysteriously disappeared by then. But there I found them oncemore, beaming at me in all their glory. I fired a color print of my voterdetails on high quality executive paper. And proudly carried it to the pollingstation. “Internet printout, eh?”, asked the polling agent stationed outside mydesignated polling station. “Let me check if your details appear in the copy ofthe electoral rolls for this station”, he continued. The more pages he turnedover without finding my name and photograph, the more his self-importanceincreased. And the more mine decreased. I interrupted him, “but my details arefrom the election commission’s website”. As though my timely interruption wouldmake the record appear in the pages he hadn’t flipped through. “I know sir, butours is the latest and most valid copy”, he declared, as he continued flippingthrough his papers to locate my name or photograph. Then he delivered hisverdict, “your record isn’t at this polling station; maybe it’s at some other”.“Some other ?”, I gasped. “It happens”, he sighed. This was fantastic. I hadabout four hours before the close of polling time to visit about a half a dozenpolling stations in my area and locate my record. But I was determined. Hadnothing particularly better to do that day. So I rushed from one pollingstation to another, only to hear one polling agent after another deliver thesame verdict.AsI was about to concede defeat to the dark forces and slip back again into theset that is accused of not exercising their right and duty to vote, I saw someactivity at a street corner. Some respectable looking people were speaking inEnglish and a couple of youngsters were working a laptop. I’m respectable, canspeak in English, and own two laptops. So I went there too. Representatives ofa newish party that hoped to attract young, educated and affluent voters werehelping people locate their records and their designated polling stations. Imay not be young or affluent, but I am educated, and hence promptlycommissioned their services. Lo and behold ! My name appeared, albeit with a differentset of voter registration details. I thanked the volunteers.And,armed with fresh ammunition and a renewed zeal to wipe out the enemy, I jumpedinto my car. Told the driver about the new coordinates to the right pollingstation.I confidentlywalked into the polling station, showed the security personnel myidentification, and queued up outside the polling booth. My mind was so cloudedwith the desire and anticipation of the precious moments that were to follow,that it didn’t occur to me that I had missed the most critical part of my warstrategy for the day. To ask my driver who I should vote for ! Don’t besurprised. My driver lives in a neighbourhood that knows lots about the localpoliticos and about their deeds and misdeeds. He used to be a dance instructor,is now married to a school teacher, nurses upward mobility aspirations, and sharesmy view that people should vote for candidates with great performance andbehaviour.Whenit was my turn to, I submitted my credentials before the electoral officer. He saidmy name aloud. When none of the representatives of the various politicalparties objected that I was a bogus voter, he directed me to the polling booth.Here I was, all to myself, and salivating at the electronic voting machine. Whenit struck me that I didn’t know who to vote for. That none of the names of thecandidates was even vaguely familiar. So I did what I had gone there for. Toexercise my right and duty to vote. Beep.Evenif it was for god-knows-who from god-knows-which-party.Idon’t like politics and politicians. I know that our city is going from bad toworse despite electing different representatives and parties to power. I knowthat manifestos and promises are forgotten by many of the elected. Etc, etc. SoI shouldn’t have felt guilty at how I’d eventually cast my vote. But I did.Inthe last few years, I have never read the questions in an employee engagementsurvey. But have always assigned a score of 5/5 to each. I have behavedsimilarly while responding to leadership surveys about my peers and bosses. Iadmit that I didn’t feel guilty while doing so. But I should’ve.
Afew days ago, during the city’s municipal corporation elections, I cast myfirst ever vote.Duringthe run-up to the day of the elections, I was very excited to discover my voterregistration details on the election commission’s website. After all, two of myprevious attempts at registration had failed, and I had no reason to believethat I would succeed with my latest attempt of a few months ago. I felt a senseof victory against all the dark forces that conspire against the registrationof urban middle class voters like me. Politicos of all hues find usunpredictable and unreliable, since we don’t swing to their tunes of region,community and caste, and hence focus their efforts on expanding their baseelsewhere. Bureaucracy ‘stiffs’ see us as politically apathetic and individuallypowerless, and hence direct their energies to other registration applicationsbrought in by eager politicos.Butthis time, I was going to cast my vote. Na-na-n-na-na.Onthe day of the elections I searched the website again. Half-suspecting that mydetails would’ve mysteriously disappeared by then. But there I found them oncemore, beaming at me in all their glory. I fired a color print of my voterdetails on high quality executive paper. And proudly carried it to the pollingstation. “Internet printout, eh?”, asked the polling agent stationed outside mydesignated polling station. “Let me check if your details appear in the copy ofthe electoral rolls for this station”, he continued. The more pages he turnedover without finding my name and photograph, the more his self-importanceincreased. And the more mine decreased. I interrupted him, “but my details arefrom the election commission’s website”. As though my timely interruption wouldmake the record appear in the pages he hadn’t flipped through. “I know sir, butours is the latest and most valid copy”, he declared, as he continued flippingthrough his papers to locate my name or photograph. Then he delivered hisverdict, “your record isn’t at this polling station; maybe it’s at some other”.“Some other ?”, I gasped. “It happens”, he sighed. This was fantastic. I hadabout four hours before the close of polling time to visit about a half a dozenpolling stations in my area and locate my record. But I was determined. Hadnothing particularly better to do that day. So I rushed from one pollingstation to another, only to hear one polling agent after another deliver thesame verdict.AsI was about to concede defeat to the dark forces and slip back again into theset that is accused of not exercising their right and duty to vote, I saw someactivity at a street corner. Some respectable looking people were speaking inEnglish and a couple of youngsters were working a laptop. I’m respectable, canspeak in English, and own two laptops. So I went there too. Representatives ofa newish party that hoped to attract young, educated and affluent voters werehelping people locate their records and their designated polling stations. Imay not be young or affluent, but I am educated, and hence promptlycommissioned their services. Lo and behold ! My name appeared, albeit with a differentset of voter registration details. I thanked the volunteers.And,armed with fresh ammunition and a renewed zeal to wipe out the enemy, I jumpedinto my car. Told the driver about the new coordinates to the right pollingstation.I confidentlywalked into the polling station, showed the security personnel myidentification, and queued up outside the polling booth. My mind was so cloudedwith the desire and anticipation of the precious moments that were to follow,that it didn’t occur to me that I had missed the most critical part of my warstrategy for the day. To ask my driver who I should vote for ! Don’t besurprised. My driver lives in a neighbourhood that knows lots about the localpoliticos and about their deeds and misdeeds. He used to be a dance instructor,is now married to a school teacher, nurses upward mobility aspirations, and sharesmy view that people should vote for candidates with great performance andbehaviour.Whenit was my turn to, I submitted my credentials before the electoral officer. He saidmy name aloud. When none of the representatives of the various politicalparties objected that I was a bogus voter, he directed me to the polling booth.Here I was, all to myself, and salivating at the electronic voting machine. Whenit struck me that I didn’t know who to vote for. That none of the names of thecandidates was even vaguely familiar. So I did what I had gone there for. Toexercise my right and duty to vote. Beep.Evenif it was for god-knows-who from god-knows-which-party.Idon’t like politics and politicians. I know that our city is going from bad toworse despite electing different representatives and parties to power. I knowthat manifestos and promises are forgotten by many of the elected. Etc, etc. SoI shouldn’t have felt guilty at how I’d eventually cast my vote. But I did.Inthe last few years, I have never read the questions in an employee engagementsurvey. But have always assigned a score of 5/5 to each. I have behavedsimilarly while responding to leadership surveys about my peers and bosses. Iadmit that I didn’t feel guilty while doing so. But I should’ve.