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