On this thirtieth day of June
With Chapter one over, I feel bold,
Taking in contradictory headlines that loom
The news is about money and more money,
So a titillated Index sees a 439 points jump.
Now Pranab’s measures are getting a drub,
It’s the Midas touch of Manmohan, honey.
But in Dirty Paper, paradoxes are grilled:
For all his wisdom, Manmohan does forget,
That in Chhattisgarh, there’s no stock market.
And that in India, 3 per cent of us trade in shares,
To ninety seven per cent others, who the f_ck cares.
However meager the Bombay rains have been,
The met office only talks of rains gone past!
430 trees have fallen, but maybe they were lean.
Privately Bombay doesn’t want rains to last.
In Pakistan there’s been a survey
That amongst the two evils the Taliban
And India, the former is safer than
The latter, who’s more dangerous any day!
However pleased with Manmohan, the stock index was,
The sulking rupee continues to post loss.
It’s slipping downhill like rainwater,
And has recorded its worst ever quarter.
Remember what we said about the horny market’s erection?
So here we sum up the month of June,
Though we started on seventeenth only.
A sad opening with a corporate chief, no goon
And soon and suddenly Mamata is lonely.
Then punctuation in the story: Anna and team . . .
Soon rating agencies make the market flaccid.
And across the border, PM Gilani has it,
But here, a battle for PM-ship starts unclean.
As a retired Pranab digs into presidential caviar,
Moneyman Manmohan returns to be old saviour,
And the erectile tissue of the stock market’s rigid.
Yet an unperturbed rupee remains frigid.
So faces changed, but India waited for someone
Still selfish, leaderless, disparitous – again ‘twas done.