Something intolerably mundane for Delhi
Happened again; and again shameless mention
Of it must be done, in the hope that finally
On some odd day, somehow, there’s ACTION.
A twenty-three old girl in a moving bus,
In pretty normal hours as normal can be,
Was gangraped by five bastards brutally;
Again, the holy police was far as Phoebus.
Stripping her, they then beat her brutally,
And threw her off the vehicle roughly.
Now after four hours of difficult surgery,
She’s on ventilator, and India’s angry.
Her intestines are ruptured, genitals injured,
And the thought crosses, where are the bastards.
Will they again first elude our fantastic police,
And then once caught, get off with ease.
And there is much more indication
That the Congress is quite possessed
With 2014, treating it like an abrogation,
Of the suspicion that destiny’s jessed
Him to the throne, and that’s all there is
To the Gandhi scion, otherwise, well. . .
Here’s another move that does tell,
The manic thrust in the electoral biz.
Now the I&B ministry has asked TRAI
(The regulator that watched telecom fry),
To review the bar of government owning
TV channels; implying that they plan at cloning
Doordarshan, which lives off them, but gives nothing
But its 92 per cent (electoral) coverage is stunning.
The pressure on him is there for sure.
For one, it’s been some years of waiting,
And then in life there’s been little to show,
That can be credited to his own accreting.
The reshuffle was the first bugle sounded,
Then the rally for orchestrated positioning,
Also, the untimely Amethi vacationing.
And more . . .but most important – a wounded
Ego for a damned start, that’s never happened
Earlier in the family, no matter how slackened;
The pressures of continuance are unimaginable,
Such that even a duffer born better be capable,
Not of taking this country to glorious heights,
But by the dint of dynasty, win democratic fights!
And on the other hand, not to compare,
There is Narendra Modi, whose obsession
Is of a different color, and seeks to wear
Down his opponents by will and volition.
This one too has no saintly or godly form,
And also suffers a private pressure, of a kind
You have when you have a disturbed mind,
That turns cold in the company of the warm.
It has gone far too far in claiming perfection,
That now to loose will be gross dereliction.
And so by dint of dubious means, even others’ blood,
Wears the badge of winning like a god-given stud.
Having walked a long road, starting with nothing,
And treading on others; only everything is something.