My sister and I sat outside the intensive care unit of the hospital in Ernakulam to which our mother had been admitted. Every day one got five minutes, sometimes more, to spend with the patient. Nobody protested the rationed interaction. All we desired was healing.

Suddenly, the sombre ambience of the ICU was ripped by loud music. It was from the road and reached the foyer reserved for patients’ bystanders, thumping and bass-rich like a DJ party. A vehicle fitted with large loudspeakers was passing by. The music featured lyrics praising the work and leadership of a political party. It was the season of such vehicles. There were many around, their sides plastered with eminent faces from Delhi and Kerala.

The location of the hospital fell in Ernakulam’s Thrikkakkara Assembly segment. A by-election was due on May 31. The din whipped up by political parties hung thick atop the worry caused by unseasonal rain.

A day after the music and loud announcements from the road disturbed the quietness of the ICU foyer, my sister and I were seated in the hospital’s main lobby when one of the candidates for the election walked in. He moved around seeking votes. The candidate and his small train of hangers-on disappeared for a while into the innards of the building. We thought we had lost them, when, canvassing in those parts done, they returned to the lobby and continued their campaign in another direction inside the hospital. Eventually, after about half an hour on the premises, they left.

My mother had a slightly long stay in the ICU before she was shifted to a room. Given the small size of the room, the lone plug point available and our shared status of work from home (WFH), my sister and I decided it was best that I operated from outside.

A former classmate living not far from the hospital let me stay at his place. The taxi ride to his house was made amid a drizzle. The driver asked where I was from and then sought to know how the weather was like in Mumbai. He was a young man capable of informed conversation. As I explained how Mumbai’s weather had altered through the years, he replied, “Climate change is everywhere. We know why it has occurred, we know what should be done to rectify it and yet we will do nothing. We are all in the grip of money.”

The observation was

spot on. If humanity loses its tussle with climate change, it won’t be for want of awareness but simply for reluctance to question the ways of money.

“It’s up to your generation now to do something,” I told the young man. “I have given up on mine and that of my parents. They don’t see past money and prestige.”

The taxi reached a major junction. A man stood with a mic, making promises, highlighting the greatness of his party and advertising the flaws of his party’s opponents. He spoke as though an ocean of listeners were around. But with people scurrying for cover from the rain, the audience consisted of the passing traffic and the people huddled at bus stops.

“Once they get our votes, we rarely see them. Don’t politicians feel ashamed coming to our houses year after year, seeking votes?” my driver asked.

The generalisation overlooked the politicians who did good work. But it was also a question that never loses its relevance in India, for our politics is notorious for courting the irrelevant and the saleable. The national political narrative, for instance, remains stuck on religion,

culture and development designed to impress. Just how do politicians develop the thickness of skin to preen despite this?

The next day was worse. I left the hospital in the evening amid a tremendous din outside. Two campaign vehicles belonging to opposing parties were parked less than 300 metres from each other. They competed in high decibel-propaganda.

Near the hospital, a lone man in the politician’s uniform of white shirt and dhoti held a mic and spoke passionately to a world of indifference. The lack of audience and the light rain didn’t discourage him. A blank gaze and a mind imagining greatness appeared the fuel for the task. My auto-rickshaw driver had the same response as my taxi driver from the previous day: “What do they hope to achieve by all this?”

The next morning, as I left my friend’s house, the road gifted a campaign under way. Waving from the lead vehicle was the same person who had sought votes at the hospital. He waved left and right on a fairly empty, rain-swept road. The vehicle behind his, fitted with a powerful amplifier and speakers, praised his virtues to the sky.

I added a soundtrack in my head — “Vote, vote for me; you know I love you, I’ll always be true, so please, please, please… vote for me” — set to the tune of Love Me Do by The Beatles.

Something told me that unlike The Beatles, who left us with a collection of enjoyable music, a legacy that inspires and Paul McCartney still belting out great songs, this drama was a black hole of love. It sucked us dry; gave out nothing. Later at the hospital, as another dose of high-decibel din struck the road nearby, my mother asked, “How can they do this? So close to a hospital?”

On May 25, the taxi driver I engaged turned out to be an office-bearer with a politically significant youth organisation. “I am active in politics. But I won’t disagree with you, Sir. Something is terribly amiss in the politics of our times,” he said.

(Shyam G. Menon is a freelance journalist based in Mumbai)