Goosebumps and governance

Vandu Murugan had always believed in two things, both equally sacred: first-day-first-show and Anna. So, when Anna announced his candidacy, Vandu Murugan didn’t just celebrate. He wept. He rolled in the middle of the street with such hysteria that a stray dog stopped and stared at him. He even forgave Nesamani from next door, who had once called Anna “just another mediocre actor”, a crime he logged carefully in a notebook.

“History!” Vandu declared, climbing onto a tea shop bench. “Cinema is about to correct politics! The villain will lose! The hero will win!” The tea shop owner asked him to get off the bench. Vandu got off. But heroically.

The campaign rallies looked like audio launches. Music loud enough to rearrange one’s internal organs. Drone cameras circled dramatically overhead. Vandu attended six of them. He would have attended a seventh, but his wife hid his sandals. The promises arrived in waves, each grander than the last. Free electricity. Free transport. Free Wi-Fi. Free everything for everyone, forever, always. “Cost?” a journalist asked timidly.

“Don’t insult people’s dignity by asking about cost,” Anna’s most trusted campaigner, Ananda, replied. “This is about care. This is about love. This is about us.” He adjusted his veshti and strode off like a man who had just delivered a film dialogue. Vandu nodded vigorously. 

Then, one night, something strange happened. In his sleep, he dreamed of the future—of Anna winning, of real governance beginning.

In the dream, the swearing-in had the first-day-first-show atmosphere. The governor squinted at the crowd, visibly unsure which event he had shown up for. The first scheme, Machan Seer (brother-in-law’s gift), was implemented. Why? Because Anna’s government would stand like a blood relative to every citizen. Vandu’s package arrived. It contained a gold-coloured steel plate, a shawl, a laminated photograph of Anna, and a note: “More seer coming soon. Keep the photo in a ventilated area.”

“This,” Vandu told his wife, “is governance with emotion.” She looked at the steel plate. “Can we eat off it?” “Not yet. It must be framed first.”

Months passed in the dream. Electricity was free on some days. The other days were officially called “planned darkness for national reflection”. A line suddenly appeared on household bills: Service Adjustment Contribution. Nobody remembered voting for it. Over the days, the rice bag at the ration shop looked smaller. “Stock adjustment,” the shopkeeper said. “But everything is free!” Vandu protested. The shopkeeper smiled faintly. 

Cabinet meetings, meanwhile, were lively. “We need a mass intro for this welfare scheme.” “Something with punch dialogues.” “And rain,” said a third. “Yes, people trust schemes announced in the rain.” Anna nodded gravely. “People must feel goosebumps when they receive benefits. Otherwise, what is the point? Without wasting time, the goosebumps committee was formed that afternoon. But files moved slowly, although the welfare scheme trailers were released on time in 4K with Dolby Atmos.

One day, Vandu’s son came home from school beaming. “Appa, I got full marks in slow-motion walking!” Exams had been abolished in favour of “natural talent expression”. Graded now on confidence, screen presence, and slow-motion walking. “Maths?” Vandu asked. “Optional.” “Science?” “Appa”, the boy said gently, “stress is the real enemy, so all these subjects are optional.”

At a massive rally, Anna stood before a sea of people. “My dear brothers, I have given you everything. And I have nothing more to give.” The crowd cheered. Out of habit. Vandu wondered what he got. Nothing, except assurances. Anna appeared again in a larger-than-life image, saying, “Style, Blast, Pakka Mass.” 

The shock woke him up. He sat up. Outside, Nesamani was sweeping his porch, unhurried. Vandu thought. Yes, after many years. Without background music. That evening, his son asked, “Appa, you think Anna will win?”

“I don’t know,” he said. And for the first time in years, the not-knowing didn’t frighten him.

“Who did you vote for?” his son pressed. Vandu smiled. Not the wide, bright, slightly unhinged fan’s smile he’d worn for years. A quieter one. The smile of a man who had walked out of a very loud theatre into the cool evening and found that he could hear himself think.

“No more heroes,” he said at last. “Only leaders.” And somewhere, faintly, the background music stopped playing. Not dramatically. Not with a cinematic fade. Just… stopped. The way things do in real life.

This is a work of pure fiction. Any resemblance to real
politicians, real promises, or real rice bags that seem smaller than last month is entirely coincidental. Reader discretion is lovingly advised. 

(The writer is an educator and political analyst based in Bengaluru)

Disclaimer: The views expressed above are the author's own. They do not necessarily reflect the views of DH.