In India’s Politics, Jail Time Is a Badge of Honor

Obediently, he cataloged the serious charges pending against him, all of which he says are false. There were 17 for murder, 22 for attempted murder, 6 for assault with a dangerous weapon, 5 for theft, 2 for extortion, and so on, a legacy from Mr. Baitha’s previous career as a leader of the local Maoist insurgency. On top of that was the fact that he was in jail.

But this did not hurt him with voters here, noted his son, Babban Kumar, who hopes to follow his father into politics. With people in this area, who look to elected leaders as Robin Hood figures, it may have helped.

“You have to fight against something, how else can you get into politics?” Mr. Kumar said. “Without going to jail, you cannot be a big politician.”

New impulses are rippling through Indian politics this year, as a growing, urbanized middle class demands that hundreds of tainted politicians be driven from the system.

In Delhi, crowds driven by Internet campaigns have rallied around an anticorruption platform, holding brooms to symbolize the coming cleansing. The Supreme Court, sensing the public mood, ruled in July that it was illegal for politicians who had been convicted of crimes to continue holding office by simply filing an appeal against their convictions. The ruling would disqualify politicians sentenced to more than two years in prison by a lower court. This change, which could uproot formidable political forces, was endorsed this month by the governing coalition’s crown prince, Rahul Gandhi.

The effort will meet its greatest challenge in another India — the old one, where voting is still largely driven by caste. In the tribal region that Mr. Baitha represents, the vast majority of elected officials face criminal charges, most related to corruption, but many for violent crimes. Voters typically dismiss such charges as trumped-up, one more attempt by elites to crush the champions of the poor.

These are some of the things that allowed Mr. Baitha to discuss the subject comfortably in the red-velvet seating area of a government guesthouse, as a ceiling fan turned slowly overhead. He urged his guest to imagine if everyone convicted of a crime were barred from politics.

“The whole Parliament will be empty,” he said. “It will become a joke.”

A big test of the new measures’ effect will come in the case of Lalu Prasad, the longtime leader of the neighboring state of Bihar, who was disqualified from holding office and running in coming elections this month after being sentenced on corruption charges. The case against him had proceeded at a snail’s pace for 17 years, as Mr. Prasad had thumbed his nose at prosecutors.

A master of populist showmanship who came from a caste of cow herders, he transformed his court dates into political theater. He arrived for one session in the back of a bicycle rickshaw, surrounded by throngs of adoring supporters, and once left jail on the back of a small elephant.

The dance seemed to end with his sentencing. But last week, sitting inside the Birsa Munda jail in Ranchi, it seemed he was perfectly capable of managing his still-formidable political empire. Scores of aides and supporters were clustered outside the jail’s iron gate, bearing coconuts and handwritten letters. Prison guards let visitors in and out at regular intervals, as if they were operating a reception center. The Telegraph, Ranchi’s main English-language daily newspaper, reported that he had summoned a tailor to his cell.

When a local anticorruption activist filed a complaint, charging that the visits were a major violation of prison regulations, Mr. Prasad decided to keep a “low profile” by receiving visitors only after 3 p.m., the newspaper reported. His visitors all said the charges were false. “People in Delhi don’t want the poor people to rise,” said one of them, Kumar Lakshman, 28. “Lalu is causing the poor people to rise.”