Suman Gaikwad’s husband had a drinking problem, as did many other farmers in this small village where, in the late 1970s, dozens of shops sold fruit wine and other home brews. Back then, domestic abuse was common and families went hungry if their men diverted money to buy booze and cigarettes.

Things changed, though, when squat, burly Anna Hazare returned from the army, determined to uplift the community.

Hazare (“Anna” is a local honorific meaning elder brother) took it upon himself to introduce an unusual policy in cooperation with village elders: He seized Gaikwad’s husband, she said, lashed him to a metal pole in the square and whipped him with a belt. Before long, smoking and drinking were banned and dozens of hooch sellers driven out of business.

“We’re happy Anna Hazare did this,” Gaikwad said, a few feet from the pole, which is no longer used for anything but holding up wires. “Now there’s no drinking, and no trouble. My husband left after and didn’t come back.”


The self-styled anti-graft activist, who confounded the Indian political establishment with a 13-day fast last month aimed at pressuring Parliament to pass his version of an anti-corruption law, has been called many things. But few accuse him of lacking focus or determination, qualities he’ll need for his next challenge: holding Parliament to its word and tackling electoral reform and farmers’ rights.

Born of humble roots in this village three hours’ drive from Mumbai and now in his 70s, Kisan Baburao Hazare attracted tens of thousands of people to his public fast in New Delhi, many frustrated over having to pay bribes for a variety of services, such as issuing a passport or fixing electricity meters that charge double.

The outpouring of support left the government, which has reeled over a string of scandals in the telecommunications, sports and defense industries allegedly involving billions of dollars, operating in crisis mode.

Wary of Hazare’s declining health, Parliament agreed in a nonbinding resolution to create a series of powerful ombudsmen, or lokpals, able to sanction officials for corruption, and to write a “citizen’s charter,” setting out what services government agencies are required to provide.


Although many have been surprised by the success of Hazare’s dramatic campaign, supporters here say it’s a logical extension of his longtime activism in this village among the wheat fields.

A keen follower of Mohandas Gandhi, Hazare adopted Gandhi’s nonconfrontational tactics, mounting several hunger strikes after 1991 to further his anti-graft agenda. But he’s also reportedly said that corrupt officials should be hanged.

As he tried to improve villagers’ lives by routing more state aid their way, he inevitably clashed with corrupt state and central government officials, honing his protest skills and taking on bigger targets.

Villagers here, speaking of Hazare in reverential tones, are convinced that he’ll ultimately win his battle against the establishment, no matter what tricks politicians attempt. The activist is not affiliated with any political party.


“He’s never lost a fight,” said Sopan Ghane, 36, a teacher. “Because of Hazare, nothing’s wrong in our village.”

One of seven children in an impoverished family, Hazare did not go beyond the seventh grade; he sold flowers in Mumbai before joining the army in the early 1960s. In 1965, he was the only member of his unit to survive an aircraft strafing during the India-Pakistan war.

Whether prompted by shock, survivor’s guilt or the memory of thoughts that he says almost drove him to suicide, Hazare vowed to remain a bachelor and devote his life to humanity, inspired by a revivalistic swami’s book that he had bought at a railway kiosk.

“I felt that God wanted me to stay alive for some reason,” he told the Times of India this year. “I was reborn in the battlefield.”


Back in the village, he started with water projects, organizing labor and funds to construct dams and dig wells. Between morality campaigns, he upgraded the local Hindu temple — he lives in an austere 10-by-10-foot room off its main hall — and built schools, a farmer training center and food bank. He fought illiteracy and caste discrimination and he encouraged tree planting.

Productivity and income rose sharply.

“He got the water from the hills,” said Madu Patel, 70, a farmer, recalling earlier days of mud houses and hunger pangs. “Some doubted him. But he’s not abrasive, and the results soon convinced them.”

From 2005 to 2010, local bank deposits tripled, said S.G. Kolhatkar, a branch manager, as farmers grew cash crops, boosted harvests and sold their produce farther afield at higher profit.


He also set up the Yadav Baba training center for dropouts, named after a local saint. “Before, I was a failure,” said Suresh Shinde, 15, lining up to march for Hazare. “Now I want to be a cop. Not the corrupt kind, though.”

Relatives say they grew used to his communalism. “I realized he was everyone’s uncle,” said his nephew Sunil Hazare, 24.

Villagers describe him as punctual, down to earth and something of a joker with children. When he sees garbage, they say, he picks it up, shaming others into following suit. When bigwigs show up expecting a feast, he serves them whatever the schoolchildren are eating.

He speaks in short, clipped phrases, but has an eye for political theater, periodically “dropping a bombshell” for effect.


Critics have accused him of bypassing democratic institutions and blackmailing leaders to further his agenda. He has accomplished a great deal in his village, but also made some tactical mistakes, said Shyam Pandharipande, a journalist who has followed his unusual social justice campaigns.

“He launched charges against officials without proof and was forced to apologize,” Pandharipande said. “He loves adulation, knowing he can bring the government to its knees at the drop of his Gandhi cap. It goes to his head and he makes blunders.”

Although Hazare’s earliest supporters were farmers, his message recently has gained strong resonance with an Indian middle class fed up with petty corruption.

“Everyone pays bribes, no matter what they say,” said Tony Vincent, a driver working near Ralegan Siddhi. “Otherwise you’ll wait a long time for a driver’s license, anything.”


The Hazare narrative, of someone who sacrifices for others, is attractive to this awakened middle class, analysts say. “Who do you trust?” said Surinder Jodhka, a sociology professor at New Delhi’s Jawaharlal Nehru University. “Someone without a direct personal stake, in contrast to the political class.”

Hazare, who lost 17 pounds during that fast that ended last weekend, has downplayed his tough anti-alcohol policies, saying that village life is harsh and demands strong measures.

Ralegan Siddhi’s village head, Jaysingh Mapare, said he’s not sure whether tying up and humiliating offenders would work in cities where peer pressure is less effective. But he supports Hazare’s actions.

“Hazare’s strong and hit them with his belt because families were suffering,” he said. “He shamed them and it was very successful. We need lots of Anna Hazares.”


mark.magnier@latimes.com