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An age moves on in a decisive stroke;
The calendar of history finally blows on;
A block of time crumbles like an old oak,
From Dec 29, ‘42 when he was born.
Now as on July 19th as he bids us goodbye,
Innocent idealism breathes it very last,
Melodious sad lyrics fade to a rhythm fast,
And resuscitating memories, IPods turn high.
Now preoccupied and senti we are finally alone,
And tears tumble with the unhindered intone.
Somehow it feels like the ballad of socialist India,
When ‘no one is different’, the romantic cornucopia.
Today it isn’t just Rajesh Khanna who is dead,
It’s a child called India that seems to have bled.
He too would have undoubtedly known
That the ‘superstar’ headline would go to him.
On his films and Kishore’s voice we’ve grown,
That on his death even arc lights would dim.
With misty eyes one scans the news around,
A spoilt brat speeds his father’s car over someone.
In the Maruti plant violence is far from done.
That Socialism is dead, evidence will only abound.
Foreign bank HSBC comes under the scanner,
On PSU banks, we’ve never heard of such chicaner.
Never out of greed have they violated compliance,
That money laundering for terror becomes valid finance.
Weren’t we a ‘sovereign socialist secular democratic republic?’
Or was the Preamble an extra constitutional trick?
In an accented tone, the hen has cackled.
Says beta Rahul will take the final call.
A nervous BJP will soon appear heckled,
As Congressmen grin seeing their downfall.
To what’s happening nearby, neither gives a damn
To the labour-management strife at the Maruti plant.
Power hungry and selfish they only want,
The lucrative power of politics, rest is all sham.
Isn’t it eerie, how it is constantly seen,
That the news that matters most to us, or has been,
They seem so completely detached with.
No workers, no farmers, it’s only about kin and kith.
For straight and simple logic gets twisted and curled,
Misaligned it’s bound to be with a hypercapitalist world.
If you’re here for the first time, then do read the ‘Foreword’ & ‘She hands over the baton’
For those who enjoy reading poignant sonnets, glance at ‘Nirbhaya’s December’