2012. A pouring Sunday, June seventeen,
In the Bombay monsoon given up for dead,
My pen hovers over a paper clean,
And reading the Dirty one I jounce my head.
As stupefied ink gushes off an American Fischer,
Slimily slithers out an Indian sonnet –
A desi engine chugging ‘neath an imported bonnet –
‘Bout ‘nother American dream, ‘nother sucker:
This time it seems even jurors were in tears,
As assiduously, they validated their worst fears.
Over hours nine and a half, weighing the evidence,
Insider Trading they inferred, but was it providence,
That it had to happen again, yet again. . . .
An Indian much deified, did India to shame.
But pray what’s with the rest of the news
(Below where Rajat Gupta stands shamed).
The nuggets are crammed with journalistic views:
Mulayam’s U turns are on pressure blamed.
As the Congress backs Pranab Mukherjee,
Presidential polls ripen to a political circus,
With egoless promiscuity, expedient hocus-pocus,
Peppered with a spectacle called Mamta Banerjee.
So who gives a f_ck, trains collide at Andheri station,
Or that well bug_ered is the economy of the nation.
Rather that a minister’s son’s deals are dubious,
Even Dirty Paper’s nosey and far more curious.
Oh but read on dear savant; it’s just a matter of time,
When abusive Indian headlines deservedly rhyme.
But what’s my two-bit temperate take,
On what the day shows pointers to?
For whom the nation toils, for whose sake?
Does it give a flying F to me and you?
Well at least the weathermen were honest,
Limited only by as much as they knew.
But on the powers-that-be, the intent we must rue,
In a democracy any good, or merely the largest?
If a Finance Minister seeks office of President
It’s their personal gain, so sc_ew the dividend.
Its b_lls on its ears, the economy does a dance,
But a preoccupied country has elsewhere to prance.
For the Executive’s a goner, the Judiciary’s blinking,
And incorrigibly again, the Legislature is winking.