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! )
4.45 am Singapore time. She died.
Yes she died. Really died. Finally.
And it was 2.15 am 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 traveler 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 cityward 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-five years, plaster peeling slums have gaped in this
From small dwellings, at long limousines, gliding into their plush zonation.