We deserve the netas we get

The candidate sat. Sipping a lemon drink. It's hot in Bangalore. 38*C. And after Bangalore has been denuded by builders and contractors trying to build glass and concrete monuments, the heat just richochets between surfaces. Even the hospitals have glass fronts. Don't know why. The candidate was approached by a few people who asked a few questions. He answered, wiping his brows now and then. I can see the effort he's putting in. He's never won the election. He hopes to. His Kannada is colloquial. He converses easily. But this is Bangalore Urban. A pocket that now has more cosmopolitan people than any other pocket in Bangalore. He needs to have his English and Hindi correct too. He does not. There's not much of the rural aspects left of the area. Yet, he's happy to speak about the water and health issues. He has a lot of followers milling around. We don't see them otherwise. They don't look like locals too. Maybe they are. But from those few suburban zones that this mini city now has. I wonder why there are no political workers among the affluent. Not just helpers. Workers. People who exhort others to vote. To take them to booths. Manage booths. Why don't I find them in these towers around me. The candidate finishes his stop. He's gotten up and wants to pay the shop owner. There are a lot of smiles and head shakes. Lot of unwanted servility. The common man still behaves as if a king has deigned to come his way. A lot of bowing down. Unnecessary. Maybe even the candidate feels so. He would just be happy if they all vote for him. But he moves on. They have some hours left and it's the last day of the canvassing. That evening I see a few of those followers sitting beside a granite store. Trading jokes. They must be from this area, a banged together ruptured Urban dysfunctional zone. Farmers who sold lands to developers and have grown rich overnight. Who know all about FSI and yellow zones but have no clue about what pulleys are levers are. Election day has arrived. We are the pulleys and levers for a change in our invested future. We paid for these towers. Yet we turn away little boys who come to exhort us to vote. We say we aren't interested in politics. What we don't say is that we will never turn away that courier guy who will bring that US Visa home. Little boys who come to our houses with election slips. Little boys with lots of hopes. I don't know how people can close doors on their faces. Beats me. And then they talk tall things about traffic, chaos, water scarcity. Little boys who work when the affluent watch Netflix in the AC cool of their homes. We deserve the netas we get.