Nirbhaya’s December – 21st, 22nd, 23rd – 2012


21st December

 

Just two short of his last score,

Modi swept Gujarat off its feat.

And yes, urban votes were at the core,

Of it, besides the 250 rallies skeet,

That he did against Rahul’s eight,

And Sonia’s seven, both half-hearted,

Coupled with marketing sins that thwarted,

Their own chances instead.

But impatient to set sights on Delhi,

He found the wait so unbearably

Difficult, that he hinted that his Hindi

People must get used to – imagine the lindy

They nearly did on the chance, that Modi may prance

By Delhi’s throne, a filler for commoners in the dynastic dance.

 

 

In Himachal the exit polls had to exit;

Their predictions went quite awry.

Congress with clear majority earned credit,

And proved the talk of doom was blubbery.

But what to make of Modi’s glib talk,

Is as vague as he may have intended,

Asking for forgiveness in case (un)intended,

He made a mistake, the conditional ropewalk.

But without a single muslim fielded by him,

Methinks it’s best to let his histrionics dim,

As also on Himachal, Congress’s applause,

Twas like an old goat with a deferred menopause,

Whose image good boy Jaitley went to taint,

On gadkarian-like charges that instead had the BJP faint.

 

 

Far removed from the self-congratulatory

Political class, Nirbhaya struggles to live.

Her intestines are removed in the second surgery,

But better results her friend has started to give,

In the identification parade at Tihar Jail.

Politicians are now falling over each other,

To condemn the incident with blather.

But they must think we’re asses who fail

To see, how to simply align with the tide

They speak, but wear the same pig-hide.

One AIADMK and one Trinamool MP

Of the Lok Sabha, have charges quite simply

Of violence against women – of assault and rape;

Meanwhile Nirbhaya’s will to live makes docs gape.

22nd

 

 

An appeasing bureaucrat commits a blunder.

RK Singh, Union Home Secretary is all alone,

In his praise for the police’s ‘outstanding’ job

In cracking the matter. A callow effort to atone,

Or allay the passions on the streets are blasted,

For his odd understanding of the mood in the city,

Where now, on Nirbhaya, an escalated worry

Of infection looms though the ventilator’s egested.

But action has inched in another shameful mantel.

In telecom, chargesheeted are Vodafone and Airtel

And the telecom secretary then Shyamal Ghosh, when

Pramod Mahajan was Minister and 846 crores was writhen,

Compared to which, Kalmadi’s 90 crore is one helluva shame,

For the kind of age we live in and with the kind of needs insane.

 

 

Scamashtra’s self-riteous patriots have awoken,

With the twin aphrodisiacs of nation and state.

This time the cocktail of the two has spoken,

From Manohar Joshi’s mouth with traditional hate,

Warning openly that the Sena would surely disrupt,

Cricket matches with Pak in Mumbai and elsewhere

In the state, because only friends play cricket anywhere;

And then his Modi-for-Prime Minister pitch is abrupt.

Perhaps the love for Modi is directly proportional,

To hate for Muslims and if made flagrantly institutional,

It blossoms infinitely. But government seems determined

To show there is no blind love for Walmart, and if they sinned,

Will be probed by the retired judge in thirty days, and the terms

Are being broadened to include naming beneficiaries and chums.

 

 

Her lab reports are disturbing even though

She’s off ventilator. And the police has nabbed

The six accused finally, including a minor who

Will doubtless pose complications that dab

With the law for minors, in a nation where

Men can remain children for very long,

Sometimes till when their parents are gone,

And even their sisters have delivered with flair.

Now though his dong can put an adult to shame,

And enough to earn his family a rapist’s infame,

He’ll be cradled instead of being whipped in jail.

At such times the fact that the law can colossally fail,

Is yet another evidence that how stupidly this nation,

Has figured its own utterly misshapen blundering creation.

23rd

 

 

Now the frustration shows in various ways –

Protestors are now knocking any door,

Where the nameplate authoritatively says,

That inside is a privileged government bore.

Now they’ve landed at the President’s place,

And made sure that they engaged the police,

Facing lathis, tear gas water cannons with ease

Like a pugilist inviting blows to his face.

When night fell, and pushed till India Gate,

There after regrouping, without abate

They closed the day, with a score satisfying.

Thirty five were injured but still not belying

Any let up in the agitation, that is now turning into habit,

Only an ass (they are) will fail (they do) to see the revolution in it.

 

 

They would bleed, then return from hospital

Back to protest. They would vandalize buses,

Damage property; anything handy they would hurl:

Bottles, shoes, bangles, coins, stones and choruses,

Where the word ‘revolution’ was oft used like a cry.

And every time the police cracked on them,

They would return with a vengeance that would stem,

From the need to tire the state and to try

The patience, and indeed to even provoke

Bloodshed, that will then go further on to stoke

The passions and fervour, which they seem to want

To remain, not ebb, till the historical tryst and taunt

Brings to its knees the so called ‘state’ and mis-named ‘nation’;

Till the old wilts, and new shoots spring from the agitation.

 

 

A UP minister with a criminal background,

Had a demented take of an illiterate imbecile,

That protestors (who the police’s trying to pound)

Are doing all this for publicity, is his spiel.

This comes from the mouth of Raja Bhaiyya,

A don with eight criminal cases registered so far,

And a shining and apt example of an a_se ajar,

Through which such talent taunts the abasia,

Of our ‘hard working’ picture pefect democracy,

Where criminals arrive with audacious abbacy.

The gruesomeness is more in hinterlands cold:

In Vadodara, a man has raped a two year old.

The rapes that are reported, is the tip of the berg,

That we are ‘developing’ is present continuous humbug.

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