In Nirbhaya’s memory – December 17, 2012

An age of revolutionary change drops a hint,

When something detestable happens again,

Yet there’s outrage in this particular incident,

Which while it may appear to be germane,

It’s actually more on the causes, not the effect,

That is, not so much on the actual incident, but,

The eco system of its causes and the near abut,

And marks the beginning of a brand new sect,

Like the Delhi gangrape has fired up,

Common citizenry to audaciously flare up,

And do the things they never planned to do,

Surprised with their own resolve to seek their due,

But now breaching the dams of restraint, the hate

Gathers unled; and moves unherded, like a river in spate.



Like Rahul faux pas on the cash transfer,

Virtually admitting on the real intent,

Here comes one from Mulayam to bestir,

How the desperate can err in content.

He says the Congress is using CBI,

To arm-twist the SP to support,

It in quota and FDI retail, both.

But if he wasn’t guilty then why

Would he heed to any blackmail,

Is a question through which he will fail,

Even in the eyes of the Supreme Court,

Which sees guilt squarely behind his cavort.

Methinks we are on the eve on an entirely new age,

When many heavyweights will be locked in the cage.



The NCP’s trying to pull off a smart move,

To pre-empt the court from ordering an SIT,

Or CBI probe on the irrigation scam, they wove

A proposal for a judicial probe with agility.

More on Maimed Mumbai and nearabouts:

Shaheen Dhadha, the one who suffered

Arrest and vandalism widely abhorred,

Is back on Facebook, but careful about fallouts.

But the fallout of being delightfully ignorant,

Is lost on well-heeled rulers and is corroborant,

Of how far removed they are in their elitist world,

From masses with whom they’re supposedly involved.

Shiela Dixit delivers innocently a Montek-like stunner:

Feeding a family of five, 600 (in rupees) is good for wage-earner!



Shiela Dixit is less a leader, more a symptom,

Of a disease of distant unthinking elitism,

Where an ornate bust is joined on a native bum,

And the joining line endures, but as a schism.

This contrived order is deceptively sculpted,

But with just a tiny of breeze of dissent,

It opens wider as a monstrous queynte,

And suddenly appears as spent and wilted.

Naturally it is the prescribed order of things,

What’s below’s permanent, and what’s above, fleeting.

And in the age of moneybags, the top gets blurred,

Then the top-heavy burden will have to be cashiered.

In a geography when even protoplasm becomes baroque,

Its damning evidence then, we’re intellectually broke.


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