Nirbhaya seems to have silently protested.
On leaving India, her blood pressure collapsed
Midflight, but doctors kept her alive and nested
Till she was wheeled in, and half-day had lapsed.
Her condition’s critical now, but sadly even here,
Politics has played its dirty and shamed hand:
Safdarjung doctors handed her to a private band,
To Naresh Trehan’s Medanta, a private belvedere.
The doctors who kept her alive, barring just one,
The government chose to sideline and shun,
Retaining their fancy for their private buddies,
Like an arty upturned moneyed nose for nudies,
That you and I are hard-pressed to understand,
Quite like debating the beginning of an engarland.
Another inheritor says something asinine.
The President’s son’s (sc_ew his name)
Sexist take on women protestors is acauline.
From the safety of a TV channel it came.
Imagine him saying with the same temerity,
The very same words at the stormy India Gate,
Tempting then the predictable hands of fate,
Which would have peeled his pants with alacrity,
And whipped his a_se till blood, red not blue
Ooozed out, to diabolical laughter that’d ensue.
Meanwhile another a_se will be overdue in getting taken,
As a woman is gangraped in Delhi, and quite shaken
Must be all those who thought the deterrent’s missing,
And that once that happens rapists prefer choir singing.
Mount Elizabeth Hospital is matter of fact,
That Nirbhaya’s condition is extremely critical.
She’d even suffered cardiac arrest that had
Inflicted more damage. And the apical
Possibility of neurological damage looms.
But now she’s far way and the news is slow
In coming and it somehow lacks the glow,
The glimmer is now suffused with glooms.
It’s almost as if the agitation was her heartbeat,
So it stopped three minutes on leaving the leet.
Now suburban prayers with candle marches.
Replace frantic agitating under colonial arches.
Now when a girl saunters to some lonely stretch,
She is cross-eyed, and sees in every man, a letch.