Monthly Archives: December, 2015

While celebrating New Year’s eve, let remember 31st Dec 2012 the Nirbhaya year

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 Modi for heaven sake,

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 azaadi without fear,

To complete what began sixty-five years ago, thanks to Nirbhaya.

Nirbhaya died today – verses in her memory

30th Dec 2012

 

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

cursed nation,

From small dwellings, at long limousines, gliding into their plush zonation.

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