Chronicles of a presiding officer

Behind the spectacle of elections is the harsh reality polling officials face.

In India’s vibrant polity, elections stir many emotions. For some, the news heralds a sense of joy, and anticipation of the democratic process unfolding again. There are those whose hearts quicken with anxiety, and the weight of uncertainty bears down upon them. Of course, some remain aloof, unaffected by the frenzy that sweeps the nation. 

I must confess, I’m a mix of the first two types. I also think the election is a daunting ordeal for me. As it draws nearer, nights become restless, with a barrage of apprehensions arising from the inevitable poll duty. Images of crowded, mismanaged, and disorganised training sessions, polling stations and their unspeakable conditions, and encounters with diverse individuals haunt the mind. Will the proceedings unfold seamlessly, or will unforeseen obstacles necessitate a repoll? Such nightmarish musings invade the sanctity of peaceful slumber.

Indian elections are undoubtedly a grand spectacle, but behind that lies the arduous reality polling officials face. A few years back, I was stationed at a polling station in a city school, devoid of even the most basic facilities. After enduring a night of discomfort on broken benches in the summer heat, my team’s spirits were understandably low. The pressing need for basic amenities such as restrooms became all too apparent with the dawn. The only option was a hotel some distance away. We walked the distance quickly and knocked on the manager’s door. Bleary-eyed and disconcerted by our intrusion, the manager regarded us with suspicion and reluctance. Only when one of my colleagues produced his official identification card did his reservations begin to wane, slowly yielding.

The polling station itself is a stage where myriad dramatic scenes unravel. As the presiding officer, I was responsible for maintaining order, especially during the early hours when the potential for malpractice loomed. Engaging in the largest democratic exercise in the world was undoubtedly exhilarating, yet an undercurrent of tension and anxiety also accompanied it. 

Everything proceeded smoothly on that particular day until a familiar face caught my attention. Instinctively, I scrutinised him closely, a nagging sense of recognition tugging at my memory. Upon closer examination, it dawned on me that he had already cast his vote hours earlier, yet he stood before me, clad in different attire and sporting new accessories. I intervened immediately. I checked his finger for the tell-tale ink mark, only to find it missing. Evidently, he had managed to erase it, a breach of protocol that the polling officials should have prevented. I warned him and let him go. He left disgruntled, only to return later in a completely different guise. I caught him again, despite his altered disguise. I told him I was booking a case this time and called the police on duty. The man quickly scooted. I expected him to return after a few hours, but he didn’t. Even today, when I travel that route, I eagerly look around, hoping to glimpse that adventurous young man, perhaps in a totally new avatar.