INDIA – DECEMBER 30th 2012
4.45am Singapore time. She died.
Yes she died. Really died. Finally.
And it was 2.15am 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 representatives 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-seven years, plaster peeling slums have gaped in this
From small dwellings, at long limousines, gliding into their plush
But to say it isn’t about women is silly
For that’s like saying for civilization
That it isn’t about being civilized really.
Further, blood rushes at the abomination
When someone vulnerable, delicate and lovable
Is brutalized, vandalized and desecrated
By some ruffians, who’re like animals created
To fill their base instincts go to lengths deplorable
And when the shock, ours and theirs
Is mutually so confounding that it stares
Then it’s clear we belong to different planets
To different worlds, to completely different sets
Proving that the way women are treated is a telling effect
Of hopeless root causes infesting a country wrecked.
So three sets of fourteen lines cover each day
From June 17th till December 31st 2012,
To show who’s the hunter, and who the prey,
Candidly reporting not intending to helve.
Going purely by newspapers, equally unfearing,
And of course by the cursed age and sentiment,
That prevails pending verifiable judgement,
Quite conscious it may well not be endearing.
Sure, rile and invectives illustrate the defeature,
But times as abusive, merit abusive literature.
So in this emotive veracity are pre election verses,
That double as a chronicle of an age full of curses.
But those blanks, if you find them obscenely hued,
It’s not my mischief; it’s your mind that’s scre_ed!
For the hitch is with our memory first;
We forget so soon, what all they did.
Then our forbearing makes it worse,
So even slaughter they get away with.
Though high maintenance and cumbersome
They are, to fathom, to know, or follow,
Thriving on ‘one more time’ that they borrow,
Yet portentously they beat their drum.
But now we won’t be duped dear reader,
Even if projected’s a holier-than-thou leader.
Now with folded hands when they scrounge for votes,
These chronicles will then come handy folks.
For us I’ve recorded in dates and verses,
So we’ll laugh and know who to bless with curses.