The point of departure of this book was the attempt to analyse the changing nature of election campaigns and intra-party organisational change in India that has taken place in the last decade. I have argued that ‘professionalisation of politics’ is the appropriate analytical category through which we can capture these changes, identify their causal drivers and understand the possible implications of this trend for the future of Indian democracy. In this book, ‘professionalisation’ has been understood to be constituted by three interrelated features. First, it includes the growing salience of technology and technological solutions to carry out quotidian tasks in the world of politics. This change can be seen in activities ranging from the aggressive use of new media technology for political communication to the increased reliance on ‘scientific’ opinion polling and data analytics to understand public opinion. Second, professionalisation entails the emergence of new kinds of actors—labelled in this book as ‘political professionals’—and a specialisation in the work performed by them. In particular, I have discussed the growing role of party employees (which capture the internal dimension of professionalisation) and political consulting firms (which capture the external dimension of professionalisation) in India. Third, professionalisation is also a discursive practice insofar as it provides a shared imaginary for different actors to articulate new ideas, visions, aspirations and expectations related to politics. Thus, for example, in this book, we encounter political consultants who believed that they were reforming Indian politics by making it more organised, efficient and rationalised through their work. While it is tempting to dismiss this as mere rhetoric, the discourse surrounding professionalisation is, in fact, a crucial tool through which such new actors seek to legitimise their presence and participation in politics.

When thinking about the professionalisation of politics, it is important to consider the three aforementioned features as a conceptual whole and not as discrete elements that are independent of one another. Thus, for example, the introduction of technological innovations in politics is in itself not a sign of professionalisation. This is because, at each point in time, politicians have tried to use the most advanced form of technology available to them (as discussed in Chapter 3).

In August 1955, Isaac Asimov published his well-known short story ‘Franchise’ in If: Worlds of Science Fiction magazine. ‘Franchise’ depicts a futuristic US that has earned the distinction of being the world's first ‘electronic democracy’ because a supercomputer named Multivac has displaced mass franchise as the technique of electing the American president. During every election cycle, Multivac selects a single voter who is adjudged to be the most ‘representative’ citizen and then subjects them to hours of rigorous questioning to learn about the mood and preferences of the wider electorate. While Multivac's inception was driven by the hope that it would ‘end partisan politics’ and reduce ‘voter's money [being] wasted on campaigns’, we are told that by the election year of 2008, there was ‘more campaigning than ever’ before. In the story, the mantle of ‘Voter of the Year’ is conferred on a man named Norman Muller, a humble shopkeeper from the state of Indiana. Asimov's choice to foreground the figure of the diffident Muller was arguably strategic. Although voting may have disappeared in this electronic democracy, Asimov did not seem to envisage that technological innovations would result in either a pure technocracy led by scientists or a model of sortition led by a computerised lottery. Ordinary Joes like Muller had a role to play—they were, after all, the crucial repositories of ‘data’ for Multivac. Thus, this was a world where electoral verdicts were still predicated on collective public opinion. However, they were mediated by the science of probability distributions, the logic of sampling and the sentience of computers that could parse large tranches of data and deconstruct subjective human emotions. In other words, for Asimov, technology would not entirely obviate political citizenship, but certainly truncate its role.

Although the year 1984 carries an obvious Orwellian resonance, for members of the INC, this was the year when Asimov's foresight seemed to be vindicated over George Orwell’s. Rajiv Gandhi, a fourth-generation scion of the Nehru–Gandhi family, was busy rolling out an ambitious programme where he envisaged that political decision-making in the party would be managed through large-scale data collection and computerised analysis.

In the previous chapter, I have discussed the process of professionalisation in the INC as evinced in its evolution from a mass-bureaucratic party to an (increasingly) electoral-professional party. This has entailed a growing dependence on technological solutions and data fetishism to correct for the perceived weakness in the party's organisational strength, thereby leading to an increase in the influence of party employees vis-à-vis party bureaucrats. This chapter provides a contrasting trajectory of internal professionalisation through the case study of the BJP. Much like the INC, professionalisation in the BJP can be found in different enclaves within the party where party employees perform tasks in domains ranging from campaign management to data analytics.

Scholars have frequently paid attention to the fact that the BJP has one of the strongest and most institutionalised party machinery throughout the country (Basu 2005; Jaffrelot 1996; P. Jha 2017b). Thus, a focus on the BJP becomes analytically instructive to understand the ways in which cadre-based parties can retain their organisational strength, ideological coherence and independent identity in an era of professionalisation. At the same time, the BJP is also unlike most other political parties. It is unique insofar as its organisational structure is inextricably linked to the wider Hindu nationalist movement in India and thus cannot be understood without taking into account the ‘division of labour’ within the Sangh Parivar—the family of Hindu nationalist organisations at the helm of which is the Rashtriya Swayamsevak Sangh (RSS). It should be noted that the relationship between the RSS and the BJP is a complicated one, and at many points in history there have been moments of disagreement and divergence between the leadership of the two organisations. Notwithstanding these occasional differences, since the mid-1980s the functioning of the BJP has carried the unofficial imprimatur of the RSS leadership. The close coordination between the two has been made possible through the imprint of the RSS that is writ large in the organisational machinery of the BJP. We can detect this imprint in four major ways.

First, since its establishment, the senior leadership of the BJP has been drawn from the ranks of dyed-in-the-wool RSS swayamsevaks and pracharaks.

According to a study by the Associated Chambers of Commerce and Industry of India (ASSOCHAM), one of the top associations of commerce and industry professionals in India, by the time of the 2014 general election, political consulting in India had grown to become an INR 7–8 billion industry (ASSOCHAM 2014). It was estimated that there were nearly 150 political consulting firms actively operating in India—both in major cities and in small towns and rural areas—that could charge anywhere up to INR 5 million for each constituency in which they were working. These firms could offer services including, but not limited to, voter profiling, media management, PR, campaign planning and constituency-based research, with some candidates using such firms even outside the election season.

The sudden rise and meteoric expansion of political consulting firms in India appears nothing short of miraculous if we note that before 2014, the very mention of political consultants in India was conspicuous by its absence. In the late 1990s, scholar Fritz Plasser conducted a ‘Global Political Consultancy Survey’ which interviewed political consultants, party managers and party employees in 40 countries (Plasser 2000; Plasser and Plasser 2002). Based on the results of the survey, Plasser (2000) found that in contrast to other parts of the world, none of the party managers interviewed in India claimed to have used the services of a political consultant. Furthermore, 77 per cent of all party managers in India expressed doubts about the possibility of ‘American campaign strategies’ ever being replicated in India. This led Plasser (2000, 44) to remark that ‘India is a special case, which can be attributed to the exceptional cultural barriers and the lack of money, as well as the Indian exceptionalism regarding their form of democracy’. Notwithstanding its purported ‘cultural barriers’, in a little over a decade, India witnessed the rise of the multi-million-dollar industry of political consulting. This chapter will demonstrate how the rise and expansion of political consultants can be attributed to an admixture of the demand- and supply-side variables outlined in Chapter 2.

Dalit and low-castes literature vividly portrays their ecological experiences, perspectives, and aspirations through a wide range of forms and themes. Within their literary works, there is a rich tapestry of both human and non-human elements, encompassing figurative and imaginative landscapes, as well as representations of natural and social environments. They reveal notions of belonging and marginalization in relation to nature, examining issues such as access and alienation from natural resources. The discourse on caste and environmental justice has made efforts to acknowledge and appreciate the Dalit eco-literary tradition. This involves critiquing the prevailing nature writing traditions and analysing Dalit literature through ecological lenses. Unlike the pursuit of an idyllic era of environmental harmony, this literary tradition aims to carve out Dalits’ distinct language, memory, and vibrancy.

In her autobiography, Bama, the first published Indian Tamil Dalit woman writer, describes herself as Karukku, meaning palmyra leaves with their serrated edges on both sides, like a double-edged sword challenging its oppressors. Her life of cruel caste oppression within the Catholic Church was like that of ‘a bird whose wings had been clipped’ and her recovery from social and institutional betrayal felt ‘like a falcon that treads the air, high in the skies’. Manohar Mouli Biswas, a Bengali Dalit writer from West Bengal, writing for over three decades, thought of himself as a water hyacinth. Initially he had named his autobiography Prisnika (water hyacinth). Later he renamed it as Life and Death of Prisnika, while expressing this self-identity as deeply hurtful for him. The world of Dr Siddalingaiah, one of India's foremost Dalit writers in Karnataka, breathes and dies in ooru keri – a separate space in a village or a city, where a Dalit resides – so much so that his autobiography is titled after this place.

Growing up as a ‘Namashudhra’ in a peasant family in West Bengal, a Dalit woman in Tamil Nadu, a Dalit man in southern Karnataka – a diverse range of contemporary Dalit writers, working in different regions and languages, identify themselves in nuanced ways with nature in their literary works. Their rich and varied stories – of discrimination and creation, humiliation and heartbreak, hope and freedom – are also nature stories, where they forge a relationship with the environment in diverse ways.

On the morning of 2 August 2016, the air in Varanasi was heavy with excitement and preparations were underway for a massive political rally that had been announced by the INC. Sonia Gandhi, then president of the INC, had arrived in the city earlier that morning and was set to undertake a massive roadshow through the city later that day. This event had been organised with considerable fanfare to launch the INC's campaign for the Uttar Pradesh legislative assembly election that was scheduled to take place in early 2017.

After arriving at the Lal Bahadur Shastri International Airport, Sonia Gandhi's motorcade headed off towards the Varanasi Circuit House, which was supposed to be the starting point of her 6.4-kilometre-long roadshow. Along the journey to the Circuit House, an estimated 10,000–15,000 bikers drove alongside her motorcade as part of a public display of strength for the INC. Gandhi inaugurated her rally by paying her respects at B. R. Ambedkar's statue near Kachahari Chauraha and thereafter set off on a winding course towards the neighbourhood of Englishiya Line, where she intended to culminate her rally by garlanding the bust of Kamlapati Tripathi (a veteran INC leader and former union minister) and by delivering a short speech to the press. During the course of the afternoon, as the INC's cavalcade slowly made its way through the narrow streets of Varanasi, thousands of citizens came out to witness the roadshow where they were greeted by a flurry of rose petals, INC party flags and the sight of Gandhi emerging from a white Mercedes, waving at them. In the teeming crowds that jostled along the cavalcade, one could find stern-looking security personnel in charcoal safari suits, police constables in khaki uniforms and INC party workers dressed in their traditional attire of white khadi (handwoven natural fibre). Amidst these familiar dramatis personae that animate all political rallies in India, also present that day was a group of individuals who had played a significant, albeit discreet, role in the organisation of the roadshow. Recognisable only through their outfits that consisted of black T-shirts and blue denim jeans, these individuals were the employees of Prashant Kishor's political consulting firm I-PAC, which had been hired by Rahul Gandhi a few months earlier to manage the INC's election campaign in Uttar Pradesh.

In Chapter 6, I provided summary statistics pertaining to the demographic and educational profile of CAG’s core team members. Here, I provide a methodological note on how this information was compiled.

Between mid-2013 and mid-2014, CAG’s official website provided brief biographical details of its team members. While the website was subsequently taken down after the 2014 general election, I was able to access this information through the Wayback Machine. Using multiple captures of the webpage provided by the Wayback Machine across different dates, I was able to compile a list of 93 core team members. The special focus given to these individuals on CAG’s official website indicates their relative importance in the organisational affairs along with that of Prashant Kishor under whose leadership they operated. Here are two examples:

As can be noted here, the biographical details found on the website were often quite terse and sometimes had missing information pertaining to key variables of interest. I was able to overcome this limitation by supplementing the information found on the CAG website with the information provided by the same individuals on their LinkedIn profiles. LinkedIn is a popular social networking site used for professional networking opportunities and career development. It was possible to correctly identify a core team member’s profile by cross-checking their name, photograph and other available details on LinkedIn with those present on the CAG website. Many of these core team members had publicly declared their affiliations with CAG on their LinkedIn profiles as well, which made it easier to confirm their identity.

Once the right profile was matched, LinkedIn could provide the missing information about an individual’s education profile if this information was missing from the biographical sketches found on the CAG website.

In 1969, when I was 16 years old, I accompanied my father to an election. My father was a raja [king] until 1950 when all the princely states were dissolved.… In this campaign, we were covering different parts of the constituency by road. Back in those days samaaj [society, community] was very important; the society was very strong. At that time there were no posters, no badges, no loudspeakers. Earlier in the day, my father's office had sent a word out to the different villages that we planned on visiting. So the car would stop in one village. We would just sit there in the car— no speeches, no loudspeaker, no stage, no nothing. But as we entered the village, we would find thousands waiting there for us. Thousands would surround our car on all sides. It was like being in a village wedding—when the baraat [bridegroom's wedding procession] arrives, people shower it with flowers, coins, dry fruits, and so on. The same thing would happen with us. We would hear coins, currency notes, flowers being showered on us as they clanged against the roof of the car. This episode would continue for 10–15 minutes. People who had gathered there would say that they felt blessed having received my father's darshan [sight]. Election was not the agenda … for them getting that darshan was what meant the most. Then my father would simply tell them that he was contesting the upcoming election and ask for their support. This took a few minutes and then the car moved on. The same scene played out in each village we visited. No big speeches, no netagiri [politicking].… And this way he eventually won the election.

Now let me tell you about my election in 1980. So, when I started my campaign, I would get the word out that I would be visiting a village. When I would reach a village, I would pick a senior man there—maybe a Brahmin leader, or a Thakur leader, or one of the backwards [sic]—and go to his house. In that one house I would find that the entire village had gathered there.

Commons, including rivers, water bodies, forests, land, air, and the earth, have served as a crucial reference point for various forms of environmentalism. However, when viewed from a Dalit perspective, commons acquire a multi-layered and intricate significance that encompasses social, economic, and environmental dimensions. They encapsulate the inherent tensions and conflicts between social integration and cultural diversity, playing a pivotal role in the expression and resolution of socio-spatial transformations within society. Moreover, commons serve as sites of Dalit creativity, enabling the exploration of self, space, spirituality, and freedom. Through the narratives, metaphors, and collective memories associated with commons, Dalit writers construct a historical account deeply rooted in the earth itself.

Dalit writer Adwaita Mallabarman was a poor Malo, born in 1914 in Gokanghat village, beside the river Titash, near Brahmanbaria town in Comilla district of present-day Bangladesh (it was East Bengal in undivided India until 1947, then East Pakistan until 1970). He lost his parents at an early age and lived with his uncle in the village until his teenage years. The Malo community raised subscriptions to support him, and he was the first child in the village and the nearby area to finish school. Mallabarman could not continue with college education because of financial problems and migrated to Calcutta (now Kolkata) in search of work. In 1950, he completed Titash Ekti Nadir Naam in the Bengali language, and after a few months, he died from tuberculosis in 1951 at the young age of thirty-seven. Titash was published in Kolkata five years after his death and became a highly acclaimed novel of Bengali literature.