Sydney

BELLARY: Liquor is flowing in the villages, a gift from well-meaning party workers keen to lubricate the wheels of democracy. Drunken men are falling all over the bonnet of Swaraj's car a Ford, but made in India. A plastic Ganesh, the god who removes obstacles, sits on the dash as she drives past thousands of pictures of herself pasted on walls, trees and poles.

Swaraj the road warrior is a consummate political operator, a nationalist guerrilla behind enemy lines in a seat where almost everything is named after Congress leaders, and the streets are thronged by a million Soniajis in cutouts and posters.

Physically, she is dumpy with a bun in a hairnet, and a few prized rolls of waist fat visible beneath the folds of her emerald Mysore saree worn in the typical desi fashion. Her tikka -- a bulls'-eye between the eyes -- is bigger than Gandhi's.

At a campaign stop in the iron ore town of Sandur, she lets herself be embraced by betel nut-chewing Lambani tribalwomen -- wild, illiterate, and coarse but suddenly Mrs Swaraj is dancing with them, a flashing apparition cloaked in the tribal mirror-work embroidery.

It is the dance of democracy. And it looks good for the cameras. She is following the most fundamental principle of Indian electoral politics, sacrificing her body for the team like an Australian footballer...

The contrast with the Gandhi campaign could not be more stark. Hemmed in by security, Gandhi has been largely confined to helicopter hopping between setpiece speeches at town rallies a remote figure, trying to appear above the fray, scurrying like a diurnal vampire to secure lodgings before dark.