India's elections feel the heat

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Chris Morris discovers the final day of electioneering in India's month-long marathon poll is a sweaty, stifling hot affair.

An elderly voter shows her election ink mark

I have spent quite a lot of my life in hot countries. I actually like the heat.

But I have never before been quite as sweaty as I have been in the last few days in Tamil Nadu.

It is 40 degrees plus, and ridiculously humid, and we are chasing after two of the most famous women in India in the space of three or four hours.

It is not for the faint-hearted.

Democracy is democracy. But holding elections in this sticky summer cauldron borders on the insane.

It is a marathon, not a sprint, and I am full of respect for the ordinary party workers who turn up every time to organise it all.

'Like a punch'

These days are known in Chennai (Madras) as Agni Nakshatram - Fire Star - the hottest days of the year.

"Today's meant to be the worst so far. People have been advised to stay indoors," says a man wiping sweat from his brow.

So out we go. First stop a mass afternoon rally addressed by Sonia Gandhi, matriarch of India's most famous political dynasty.

As we step out of the car the heat is a bit like a punch in the solar plexus.

Sonia Gandhi is the torchbearer of the Nehru-Gandhi dynasty

We pick up our kit and start trudging past row upon row of minibuses festooned in party colours.

There are flags and posters and people shouting.

One group dressed in matching black and red saris seem to have given up on the rally.

They are sitting in the shade having a picnic. Not a bad decision.

As a stage finally looms into sight in the distance, the sound is earth-shattering.

I stick a microphone in my ear to the obvious amusement of passers-by.

We negotiate our way through two police checkpoints, as the crowd gets thicker and thicker.

Cardboard cut-outs

At the third, a harassed-looking security woman - sweating nearly as much as I am - shouts at my press card.

"It is utterly impossible for you to come in here," she yells, with some finality. "Gate 3 only."

Gate 3 says it is Gate 5, so we resort to begging with the most senior police officer we can find.

Another crush of people and it is back to Gate 3. We are in, and I am dripping.

Cardboard cut-outs of three generations of the Gandhi family - along with their regional allies - are as tall as four-storey houses.

From where I am standing it looks like Sonia is waving at me from the top of a tree. Momentarily it is disconcerting.

"You are looking hot," says an observant gentleman with a newspaper on his head.

I nod, and start to fantasise about the Kashmir valley in the far north, where I was covering elections a few days earlier.

It was grey and raining and looked like East Sussex in April.

We listen to speeches, we sweat a little more, and we leave early to try to beat the rush.

On the street corner a man is selling bottled water. He has a big smile on his face. Business is booming.

Huge spectacle

Jayalalitha is one of India's most colourful and controversial politicians

Next stop a rally at the central bus stand, to be addressed by Jayalalitha, the larger-than-life former Tamil movie superstar, who leads one of the two regional parties which dominate this state.

The crowd is packed thick along the entire length of a street and we have arrived at the back.

It is early evening now, and allegedly cooler, but I am still just as hot.

We press forward. My cameraman Ravi is carrying his camera on his head, and his face looks like a windscreen on a rainy day.

"BBC News?" says a voice from the crowd. We are pushed on in a surge and I am carried bodily straight into the branch of a tree.

Eight members of a family lean over a balcony and wave, enjoying the spectacle.

We are close to the front now, and the huge arc lights are making things - if it is possible - even warmer.

Jayalalitha appears and the crowd roars, while I stew in my own juice and my squelching shoes

Some people have to be pulled out of the crush by the police into the area in front of the stage.

I wonder if the Rolling Stones are about to appear.

A man wearing a Jayalalitha mask tries to borrow my bottle of water, but it is nearly empty anyway.

Another man pressed against the shutter of a shop to my right is holding a large bunch of long Indian beans above his head. It is not entirely clear why.

"It's Mr Bean!" I say to the man in the mask, but I am not sure he gets the joke.

I have beads of sweat running down the rivers of sweat on my forearms.

My shirt has gone a uniform shade of darker blue.

A policewoman on the other side of the barrier looks at me and giggles.

I cannot say I blame her. I suspect I look ridiculous.

Jayalalitha appears and the crowd roars, while I stew in my own juice and my squelching shoes.

Covering these huge elections over five weeks has been a great privilege and enormous fun.

But thank goodness they are over.

I could not have taken much more, and I suspect most people feel the same.

Except of course that man selling water on the street corner in Chennai.

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