These sonnets (each with the same fixed rhyming scheme) cover:
what India (us and the political class) was doing
when Nirbhaya (who symbolized the apathy of politicos) was dying.
To her memory. And to our awakening.
Let us continue our fight for a 2nd azaadi with the same verve.
( the links are clickable; so read about our representatives before 2014! )
Nirbhaya was flown out to Singapore,
Late last night with three air ambulances.
A cabinet decision to save her . . . but somehow a dour
Fog hangs as though someone dear chose distances . . .
Was she deteriorating while they held out hope?
Or . . . have they. . .no they can’t go so far, can they. . .
That they shifted her to keep trouble at bay?
Whatever it is, the throat feels an old choke . . .
Of helplessness? Of futility? Of an emptiness . . .
That finally they call the shots. . . but now bleariness
Catches us in its sweeping thick enveloping arms,
Peace-dreams of sheep bleating in picturesque farms.
Is it a stop, a pause, a punctuation? No it’s a pit stop
On a deadly track, where only after the finish, you flop.
Believe or not, even Shiv Sena can inspire
If not anyone, at least some rogue Delhi cops.
A college girl first detained, was threatened with dire
Consequences (jail!) if she failed to apologize – the bops
Reminiscent of Palghar’s Shaheen, this one’s Twitter
Not Facebook. But social media, they love to hunt,
Though in the streets of Delhi they miss the lunt,
Where their shit colored uniform is missed for litter.
From litter to glitter: in Modi’s swearing in as CM,
Few notables were absent though many felicitated him.
Were missing in entirety and found better things to do.
While the political class seeks power with robotic cluck,
Our heartbeat is flying to Singapore; we’re praying for luck.
The government has set up a commission
Of inquiry headed by Usha Mehra, a retired
Delhi High Court judge, whose mission
Is to examine lapses, fix responsibilities desired.
In three months time the panel will be done
With its report, which my two bit mind thinks,
Needs three minutes or maybe even three blinks.
Post December 31st, when these sonnets will run
Past a hundred commissions to proffer the obvious,
By focusing on the basics so wonderfully atrocious,
That their simple abandon will make us finally
A nation. What has so far been hinted acrostically,
Will then transmute from this poetic origamis,
To a simple prescription; that’s my two-bit promise.