Chapter 13 - Political Posters

 

13

 

            The bus slowed near a village whose name I could not properly read because the board itself had faded under dust, rain, and forgotten years. Half the letters were gone. Only the rust remained loyal.

 

            But the political posters were fresh.

 

            Huge smiling faces covered the cracked walls like new paint over old pain. One leader folded his hands respectfully. Another pointed toward the sky as if he personally knew the address of the future. A third smiled with such confidence that one could almost believe electricity, jobs, roads, and honesty were waiting just around the next turn.

 

            Yet beneath those posters, the wall itself was breaking.           The plaster had peeled away. Bricks showed through like exposed bones. Rainwater stains ran downward like old tears that had stopped asking for attention.

 

            I kept watching through the bus window.

 

            In villages, walls tell the truth more honestly than speeches.  A poor man repairs his roof before festivals. A government repairs slogans before elections.

 

            The bus stopped near a tea stall. A few men sat on broken benches discussing politics with the seriousness of philosophers and the helplessness of prisoners. In India, even the poorest man carries political opinions like inherited property. He may not own land, but he owns arguments.

 

An old farmer stirred his tea slowly and said,

“Every election gives us new promises. Only the potholes remain permanent.”

 

            Everyone laughed.  Not because it was funny…Because it was true.  Truth often survives in villages disguised as humor.

 

            Outside the stall, another poster hung loosely from a bamboo pole. The rope on one side had snapped, so the leader’s smiling face bent downward awkwardly, as if even confidence becomes tired after a while.

 

            I remembered something I had once seen in a video.

 

            A political banner had been placed against a wall, waiting to be erected properly. Before workers could fix it, stray dogs gathered around it. They barked continuously at the smiling face printed on the flex.

 

            Not one dog looked afraid.  Not one dog looked impressed.  They barked as if instinct could recognize performance better than people do.  That video stayed in my mind for days.  Animals do not understand manifestos, but sometimes they understand pretence.

 

            The strange thing about power is this:  the farther it stands from ordinary suffering, the larger its photographs become.

 

            In rich colonies, politicians arrive quietly in cars with dark windows.  In poor villages, their faces become giant.  As if size itself can replace change.

 

            The bus moved again.

 

            Children walked barefoot beside walls carrying promises worth crores. Buffaloes stood under giant election banners while flies rested peacefully on both the animals and the leaders’ printed faces without discrimination.

 

            Nature has no respect for status.

 

 

 

 

            A buffalo does not care who the chief minister is.  A crow will sit equally on a minister’s statue and a broken electric pole. 

 

            Only humans create ladders inside dust.

 

            As we crossed deeper into the countryside, I noticed a strange pattern. The poorest homes carried the brightest political colors. Tiny mud houses stood beside giant posters announcing development schemes. Walls without toilets displayed advertisements about progress.

 

            It felt almost poetic.

 

Reality whispered.

Posters shouted.

 

            And in most societies, shouting wins elections.

 

            I remembered my years in the Army.

 

            There, walls rarely carried smiling faces. Orders mattered more than slogans. A bunker never became stronger because someone painted patriotic lines on it. Discipline had to exist beyond words.

 

            Civilian life often felt different.

 

            Here, language itself had become construction material.

 

“Development.”

“Change.”

“Transformation.”

“Future.”

 

            Big words are cheaper than cement.  Perhaps that is why they are used more.

 

            The conductor switched on loud music inside the bus. A romantic song filled the air while outside, an old woman carried firewood on her back past a wall that promised “modern villages.”

 

            The contrast felt unbearable.  Sometimes a nation moves forward only in advertisements.

 

            The passengers barely noticed anything outside. Some scrolled endlessly on phones. Some slept. Some argued over seat space. Life teaches survival first, observation later.

 

            But window seats curse people differently.  Those who keep looking outside eventually begin collecting invisible wounds.

 

            A young boy entered the bus at the next stop selling cheap pens. He moved seat to seat quietly.

 

“No one buys thoughts,” I suddenly thought.

“Only things.”

 

            A politician understands this deeply.  That is why speeches are emotional, not truthful because truth demands patience and emotion demands reaction.  And elections are won by reaction.

 

            The boy selling pens got down after earning almost nothing. As the bus started moving again, I saw him disappear near another damaged wall carrying another smiling face.

 

            For a moment, it felt as if the posters were richer than the people themselves.  Maybe they actually were.  Democracy becomes strange when printing costs more than human dignity.

 

            The road turned rough. The bus shook violently.

 

            One poster had partially torn from the middle. The leader’s smile remained intact, but the eyes were missing because the flex had ripped exactly there.

 

            I kept staring at it.

            Without eyes, every leader looks honest.

 

            Rain clouds gathered slowly above the fields. Farmers looked upward hopefully. Villages still depend more on weather than policy.

 

            No manifesto has ever controlled monsoon winds. 

 

            A farmer understands uncertainty better than economists. He plants seeds without guarantees. He spends money without certainty. He survives seasons that would mentally destroy most city people.

 

            Yet every five years, someone arrives in a helicopter to explain development to him.

 

            There is something deeply insulting hidden inside modern politics: people who have never lived village life often speak most confidently about villages.

 

            The bus halted again near a chowk where loudspeakers were tied to electric poles. An upcoming political rally was being announced repeatedly.  The voice on the speaker sounded energetic, victorious, certain.  Meanwhile the electric wires above looked dangerously loose.

 

That is our tragedy sometimes…

even our announcements are stronger than our infrastructure.

 

            Near the chowk, a wall carried layers upon layers of old posters beneath new ones. Torn faces from previous elections peeked out underneath current promises.  History buried under fresh glue.  One generation pasting itself over another.

 

            Suddenly I realized something.

 

            Political posters resemble human ambition itself.  Everyone wants to leave their face somewhere permanent.  Very few leave meaningful work.  Perhaps that is why saints rarely need banners.  Their memory travels quietly through people.

 

Power needs walls.

Character needs hearts.

 

            The bus driver spat tobacco outside the window and laughed at something the conductor said. Life continued casually around these thoughts. That is how reality survives…ordinary routines protecting humans from overthinking.  Otherwise every village would drown in disappointment.

 

            I looked again outside.

 

            A child was drawing with chalk beneath a massive political banner. His house nearby looked incomplete, maybe unfinished for years. Yet he smiled while drawing circles on the ground.

 

            Children still create worlds where adults only create complaints.  Maybe hope is born naturally and later destroyed professionally.

 

            The rain finally started.

 

            Posters fluttered violently under the wind. Some edges loosened. Water ran over smiling printed faces. Ink began melting slightly at corners. 

 

            Rain treats propaganda honestly.

 

            For a few minutes, the village looked almost beautiful. Wet soil darkened. Trees washed themselves clean. Buffaloes stood silently enjoying the weather. Farmers smiled faintly.

 

            And the posters looked weaker.  Nature always reduces human arrogance to temporary cloth.

 

            I remembered another line silently forming inside me:  “The louder a promise becomes, the more carefully one should inspect the silence behind it.”

 

            A man sitting beside me suddenly pointed outside and said, “They will come asking for votes again next month.”

 

            His tone carried neither anger nor excitement.  Only exhaustion.  That tiredness is dangerous for any democracy.  When people stop expecting honesty, corruption no longer needs to hide.

 

            The bus crossed a small government school. Its boundary wall was filled entirely with political advertisements except for one fading line painted years ago:

 

            “Education is the real wealth.”

 

            Ironically, that sentence was the smallest thing on the wall.  Sometimes truth survives only in tiny letters.

 

            I closed my eyes briefly.

 

            In my lifetime, I had seen wars, uniforms, offices, ceremonies, speeches, transfers, retirements, victories, and losses. And one thing slowly became clear:  No nation collapses suddenly.  It slowly learns to tolerate the wrong things.

 

            Broken roads.  Broken systems.  Broken trust.  Broken walls carrying perfect smiles.  That is how decay hides itself…not through disasters, but through normalization.

 

            The rain became heavier now. Water rushed along the roadside carrying plastic cups, wrappers, mud, and fragments of torn political posters into the drains together.

 

            In the end, waste travels collectively.

 

            The bus entered another village where preparations for a political visit were underway despite the storm. Men worked hurriedly in heavy rain, splashing through muddy streets while tying banners and straightening giant cut-outs beside the road.

 

            Fresh paint covered only the visible walls facing the highway. The inner lanes remained broken, drowned in puddles and neglect.

 

            That scene alone explained governance better than newspapers ever could.  Most development happens for visibility.

 

            Reality begins exactly where cameras stop recording.

 

            A few laborers stood barefoot in mud, their clothes soaked completely, struggling to erect smiling political faces against strong winds. One worker held the bamboo pole steady while another climbed dangerously upward in rain just to tighten a loose rope around a leader’s giant banner.

 

            For a moment, the image felt painfully symbolic.   The poor were standing in dirty water so powerful men could appear taller.

 

            Rain kept falling on everyone equally…workers, posters, buffaloes, broken roads, and promises. But only some people had the privilege of staying dry inside speeches.

 

            I kept watching silently through the bus window.

 

            No camera would record those laborers.  No rally speech would mention them.  Tomorrow, when crowds gathered and slogans echoed, people would look upward at the smiling leader…not downward at the men whose exhausted hands had lifted that smile into the sky. 

 

            Perhaps that is the oldest system in the world:  Some people spend their lives holding banners they will never benefit from.

 

            And somewhere inside me, another quiet line appeared:  “History remembers the faces on posters.

Life remembers the hands that tied them in rain.”

 

            That image disturbed me deeply.  The poor often build the stage from which they themselves are ignored. 

 

            For a moment, I wondered whether politicians truly lie more than society itself. Maybe leaders simply become enlarged reflections of public behavior.

 

            After all, ordinary people also make promises they do not keep.

 

            We promise time to parents.  Love to partners.  Honesty to friends.  Values to children.  And loyalty to ourselves.

 

            Perhaps politics is only human weakness wearing white clothes.

 

            That thought softened my anger a little.

 

            The rain slowed.

 

            Evening light spread gently across the wet fields. The posters now looked tired after surviving the storm. Their bright colors had dimmed slightly under mud splashes.

 

            And strangely, they looked more truthful like that.

 

            Imperfection makes things believable.  Maybe that is why villagers trust cracked hands more than polished speeches.

 

            As the bus approached the town, I looked one final time at a broken wall carrying an enormous smiling face.  Below it sat an old cobbler repairing torn shoes quietly.

 

            No crowd around him.  No slogans.No microphone. No promises.  Just work.

 

            And suddenly it felt as if the entire country stood divided between those who repair reality and those who print dreams.

 

            The bus moved ahead.

 

            The wall disappeared behind dust and distance.

 

            But one thought remained seated beside me all the way home:  “Promises become larger exactly where reality becomes smaller.”