Such a sad end to such a lousy year,
But that applies to lesser mortals.
For the political class is immune and clear,
Of all troubles despite their abettals.
But now their story will begin in earnest,
And the indications of this are ample.
One, which Sheila Dixit had to sample,
When to protestors she acted divinist.
They shunned her and asked her to scoot
And go elsewhere, which she did with the hoot.
Otherwise they continue to wield power,
And with it, the money that will shower
Over their small cheap heads that they self-preserve.
They are wild animals protected in their own reserve.
Her funeral was a hushed up affair,
And done amid real tight security.
At her cremation, even the air,
Must’ve whispered without acuity.
PM and Sonia were at the airport
To receive her body at 3.30 am.
They consoled her parents, ahem . . .
How and with what, imagine the amort
In their words, though decency’s not in doubt,
At least not in their case, unlike that lout
The president’s son, or that UP schmuck
Raja Bhaiya, and now even some Sena muck,
That apparently found the prez’s son crap delicious
But timed wrongly; not surprising, typically supercilious.
Oh it wasn’t the year of social media.
Not at all. Nor was it just women safety;
Not even Corruption, a synonym for India,
Or even economic forecast and its dubiety.
It wasn’t about about Modi for heavensake,
Nor about the duo Sonia and Manmohan,
And not about an intermittent Rahul darshan,
Not even the shindy that parliament bills rake.
It was the year of the countless and faceless,
Of the subjugated, the ruled, the nameless;
It was about those hostaged in their own land,
Denied fairplay, dignity, opportunity, justice and
The first year of a new revolution, a second azadi without fear,
To complete what began sixty-seven years ago, thanks to Nirbhaya.