About some politicians who spend more time waiting outside power’s door than serving the people.
Dr. Ashraf Zainabi
Politics, like cinema, has its own unforgettable characters. Some are heroes, some villains, some comedians, and some spend their entire careers waiting for a scene that never arrives. In Jammu and Kashmir’s political theatre, one encounters a unique category of public representatives, Abdullahpur kay Devdas.
The term is not intended as an insult. Rather, it is a light-hearted satire, an observation of a familiar political phenomenon. Like the legendary Devdas, these individuals are not known for rebellion, adventure, or innovation. Their greatest strength lies in loyalty and an unwavering ability to remain emotionally attached to a particular political doorstep.
Every democracy has them. They arrive early. They wait long. They nod enthusiastically. They applaud generously. They attend every gathering. They remember every birthday. They praise every speech. They defend every decision. If loyalty were an Olympic sport, they would bring home gold medals every election season. The ordinary citizen, meanwhile, often wonders whether his elected representative is an MLA or a permanent member of a political waiting room.
A curious feature of democracy is that voters send representatives to legislatures, but some representatives seem convinced that their true workplace is somewhere else entirely. Instead of carrying the voices of their constituencies to the corridors of power, they spend remarkable amounts of energy carrying the moods of power back to their constituencies.
Roads may be broken. Water supply may be irregular. Youth may be searching for opportunities. Farmers may be struggling. But these Devdas’s remain focused on the larger question, has the leadership noticed me today?
This is not unique to one party, one region, or one era. Political history is filled with leaders who mistook proximity to power for possession of power. They believed that standing near the throne somehow made them kings. Unfortunately, voters rarely share this belief. The people expect representation. They expect initiative. They expect courage. They expect occasional disagreement. They expect their representatives to advocate for them, not merely admire someone else. Yet the Devdas mindset persists.
The fascinating thing about political Devdas’s is that they are perpetually optimistic. Every reshuffle is their reshuffle. Every announcement is their announcement. Every rumour is secretly about them. When a cabinet expansion is discussed, they become philosophers. When tickets are distributed, they become strategists. When appointments are made, they become analysts. And when nothing happens, they become analysts. For years. Sometimes decades.
A true political Devdas can survive multiple elections, ideological shifts, coalition arrangements, and changing political climates while maintaining a single constant belief, my moment is coming.It never entirely arrives, but hope, like politics, is renewable.
The irony is that many of these individuals possess genuine talent. They understand local issues. They know their constituencies. They are capable administrators. They could build independent political identities based on public service. But independent identities require independent thinking. And independent thinking occasionally requires the courage to say, I respectfully disagree. That sentence, unfortunately, remains among the rarest species in political ecosystems.
“In democracy representatives have to be active public advocates and problem-solvers rather than passive courtiers who chase the favor of the powerful. True leadership is defined by opening doors of influence for ordinary people rather than merely standing near them; history remembers those who work for the public, not those who wait on power.”
Political Devdas therefore finds comfort in safer territory. Why risk disagreement when agreement is so convenient? Why propose something new when repeating the words of their bosses is easier? Why lead when one can follow? As a result, politics often begins to resemble a royal court rather than a democratic institution. The focus shifts from solving public problems to interpreting political signals. A pothole waits for repair. A school waits for improvement. A hospital waits for equipment. A village waits for attention. But political energy is consumed discussing seating arrangements at meetings, positions on stages, and invisible hierarchies understood only by insiders. Citizens, meanwhile, watch the spectacle with growing amusement.
The average voter has become surprisingly sophisticated. He may not speak the language of political strategy, but he understands authenticity. He can distinguish between a representative who visits only during elections and one who remains present throughout the year.He knows who raises issues and who raises slogans. He knows who serves and who merely survives. That is why political Devdas face a modern challenge. In earlier decades, proximity to power alone could sustain careers. Today, social media, instant communication, and rising public expectations have changed the rules. People increasingly ask simple questions. What have you done? What have you improved? What have you delivered?
No amount of poetic loyalty can permanently substitute for practical results. Perhaps this is where the metaphor of Devdas becomes useful. The tragedy of Devdas was not merely love. It was the inability to move forward. The refusal to evolve. The habit of remaining trapped between memory and possibility.
Politics suffers from the same problem when leaders become excessively attached to personalities rather than principles, to proximity rather than performance, to approval rather than accountability. Democracy thrives when representatives act as bridges between people and power.It weakens when they become spectators of power. The people do not elect admirers. They elect advocates. They do not need permanent courtiers. They need problem-solvers. And they certainly do not need political Devdas wandering endlessly through the corridors of influence carrying bouquets of loyalty while public grievances wait outside. The future belongs not to those who stand closest to powerful doors, but to those who open doors for ordinary people. That is the difference between a representative and a Devdas. One waits for power. The other works for the public. And history, more often than not, remembers the latter.
(The author is a teacher and a researcher based in Gowhar Pora Chadoora of Central Kashmir’s Budgam district. The views, opinions and conclusions expressed in this article are those of the author and aren’t necessarily in accord with the views of “Kashmir Horizon”)
