Nirbhaya’s December – her last days 27th, 28th, 29th, 30th – 2012

27th December 2012



Nirbhaya was flown out to Singapore,

Late last night with three air ambulances.

A cabinet decision to save her . . . but somehow a dour

Fog hangs as though someone dear chose distances . . .

Was she deteriorating while they held out hope?

Or . . . have they. . .no they can’t go so far, can they. . .

That they shifted her to keep trouble at bay?

Whatever it is, the throat feels an old choke . . .

Of helplessness? Of futility? Of an emptiness . . .

That finally they call the shots. . . but now bleariness

Catches us in its sweeping thick enveloping arms,

Peace-dreams of sheep bleating in picturesque farms.

Is it a stop, a pause, a punctuation? No it’s a pitstop

On a deadly track, where only after the finish, you flop.



Believe or not, even Shiv Sena can inspire

If not anyone, at least some rogue Delhi cops.

A college girl first detained, was threatened with dire

Consequences (jail!) if she failed to apologise – the bops

Reminiscent of Palghar’s Shaheen, this one’s Twitter

Not Facebook. But social media, they love to hunt,

Though in the streets of Delhi they miss the lunt,

Where their shit coloured uniform is missed for litter.

From litter to glitter: in Modi’s swearing in as CM,

Few notables were absent though many felicitated him.

Nitish Kumar, Naveen Patnaik and Chandrababu Naidu

Were missing in entirety and found better things to do.

While the political class seeks power with robotic cluck,

Our hearbeat is flying to Singapore; we’re praying for luck.



The government has set up a commission

Of inquiry headed by Usha Mehra, a retired

Delhi High Court judge, whose mission

Is to examine lapses, fix responsibilities desired.

In three months time the panel will be done

With its report, which my two bit mind thinks,

Needs three minutes or maybe even three blinks.

Post December 31st, when these sonnets will run

Past a hundred commissions to proffer the obvious,

By focussing on the basics so wonderfully atrocious,

That their simple abandon will make us finally

A nation. What has so far been hinted acrostically,

Will then transmute from this poetic origamis,

To a simple prescription; that’s my two-bit promise.




Nirbhaya seems to have silently protested.

On leaving India, her blood pressure collapsed

Midflight, but doctors kept her alive and nested

Till she was wheeled in, and half-day had lapsed.

Her condition’s critical now, but sadly even here,

Politics has played out its dirty and shamed hand:

Safdarjung doctors handed her to a private band,

To Naresh Trehan’s Medanta, a private belvedere.

The doctors who kept her alive, barring just one,

The government chose to sideline and shun,

Retaining their fancy for their private buddies,

Like an arty upturned moneyed nose for nudies,

That you and I are hardpressed to understand,

Quite like debating the beginning of an engarland.



Another inheritor says something asinine.

The President’s son’s (sc_ew his name)

Sexist take on women protestors is acauline.

From the safety of a TV channel it came.

Imagine him saying with the same temerity,

The very same words at the stormy India Gate,

Tempting then the predictable hands of fate,

Which would have peeled his pants with alacrity,

And whipped his a_se till blood, red not blue

Ooozed out, to diabolical laughter that’d ensue.

Meanwhile another a_se will be overdue in getting taken,

As a woman is gangraped in Delhi, and quite shaken

Must be all those who thought the detterent’s missing,

And that once that happens rapists prefer choir singing.



Mount Elizabeth Hospital is matter of fact,

That Nirbhaya’s condition is extremely critical.

She’d even suffered cardiac arrest that had

Inflicted more damage. And the apical

Possibility of neurological damage looms.

But now she’s far way and the news is slow

In coming and it somehow lacks the glow,

The glimmer is now is suffused with glooms.

It’s almost as if the agitation was her hearbeat,

And so it stopped three minutes on leaving the leet.

Now suburban prayers with candle marches.

Replace frantic agitating under colonial arches.

And now when a girl saunters to some lonely stretch,

She is cross-eyed, and sees in every man, a letch.




The 9pm Mount Elizabeth health update

Made hearts sink across this country.

Now other vital organs, besides intestines ablate;

It’s twelve days since admisson with surgical carpentry.

Fluids have accumulated in her weak lungs,

But they can’t be drained coz the platelet count

Is too low, so fresh plasma in a copious amount

Is being infused to make it climb in rungs.

But haunting words ring besides the minutiae

That she is ‘fighting for her life’, the stark entia,

Makes us suddenly question the why and when

Tracing her twelve days of ‘progress’ and then . . .

Did they fly her when they should have not?

Or was she far worse than we were told, or what?



The government’s version doesn’t seem clean.

Safdarjung hospital said ‘twas government’s decision

To move Nirbhaya; but more versions glean.

With Salman Khurshid’s, Dr Naresh Trehan’s inclusion

To the doctors who recommended at Safdarjung,

And Ghulam Nabi Azad, Health Minister who

Implied, that afterall Safdarjung is government too!

But the political class to Trehan, have for long clung,

And so it’s possible like good boys under instruction,

Had to seek advice from Trehan with acceleration,

And a haughty Trehan must have prevailed over

The Safdarjung doctors, now treated like stover.

Not that I claim my two-bit mind knows any of this,

But with so much practice, my Indian nose easily smells piss.



The year is slowly coming to a close,

And is perhaps the gloomiest end

Of any year in a long time, rickety, rimose

Even Dirty paper is heavy with the scend

Of a snowballing infectious heaviness,

A premonition of a permanent parting?

Or that our flock is ephemeral and scarting?

Or the fear of an irretrievable abjectness?

Now at other news, one scarcely takes a gander,

However spicy the concoction in the colander:

That Centre’s playing cat and mouse on Telangana,

Or Praful Patel’s praise of Modi’s worth four anna.

But yes we read about Sonia seeking justice for the ‘girl’(s)

For that Sonia, take a hard look at your parliamentary pearls.




4.45 am Singapore time. She died.

Yes she died. Really died. Finally.

And it was 2.15 am here, but India cried.

The news, this one time was nightly.

For twenty six nights, not days thirteen,

She fought and still stayed composed

Psychiatrically. Her face that reposed

Faith in protestors remained unseen;

The face unseen, the woman nameless,

From some village, a bus traveller so less

Privileged than the ruling or moneyed,

Was enough to get India up and frenzied.

So my two-bit mind for all its confusion, is clear about

The fact, that the rape was but a spark, to begin the rout.



But now the incident like a story,

Is through with its climaxing parts.

And Nirbhaya though an allegory,

With rapes-and-women-safety starts.

But when traced to deeper causes,

Raises questions that progressively

Culminate to answers regressively,

Beyond admin and judicial clauses.

On one side a societal unrest of classes;

A ‘lower’ man prevails on citied classes,

Through the biological force of rape,

Which becomes easy in a state with this inscape,

Where self-seeking repesentatives thrive on anarchy,

Promote class and caste divide, and rule as a squirarchy.



A telling statement from her grandmother:

‘They left this village for a better life.

Look what they’ve got’ sums up the bother.

When cities and villages blur the line,

While the economic disparity is stark,

Either by encroaching into rural hinterland,

To further the ill feeling in the depraved band,

Or when villagers move citywards to hark

Opportunity, but end up courting poverty.

And with the sleaze, the slums; still the anticity

Is lost among fellow strugglers and comes too late,

Till finally too fat a price has been mortally paid.

For sixty-five years, plaster peeling slums have gaped in this

cursed nation,

From small dwellings, at long limousines, gliding into their plush zonation.


Leave a Reply

Please log in using one of these methods to post your comment: Logo

You are commenting using your account. Log Out /  Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out /  Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out /  Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out /  Change )


Connecting to %s

%d bloggers like this: