On this thirtieth day of June
With Chapter One over, I feel bold,
Taking in contradictory headlines that loom
Bombay: eight acres plot, for Rs 600 cr sold.
The news is about money and more money,
So a titillated Index sees a 439 points jump.
Now Pranab’s measures are getting a drub,
It’s the Midas touch of Manmohan, honey.
But in Dirty Paper, paradoxes are grilled:
For all his wisdom, Manmohan does forget,
That in Chhattisgarh, there’s no stock market.
And that in India, 3 per cent of us trade in shares,
To ninety-seven per cent others, who the f_ck cares.
However meagre the Bombay rains have been,
The met office only talks of rains gone past!
430 trees have fallen, but maybe they were lean.
Privately Bombay doesn’t want rains to last.
In Pakistan there’s been a survey
That amongst the two evils the Taliban
And India, the former is safer than
The latter, who’s more dangerous any day!
However pleased with Manmohan, the stock index was,
The sulking rupee continues to post loss.
It’s slipping downhill like rainwater,
And has recorded its worst ever quarter.
Remember what we said about the horny market’s erection?
The rupee’s more sober – needs a fundamental correction.
So here we sum up the month of June,
Though we started on seventeenth only.
A sad opening with a corporate chief, no goon
And soon and suddenly Mamata is lonely.
Then punctuation in the story: Anna and team . . .
Soon rating agencies make the market flaccid.
And across the border, PM Gilani has it,
But here, a battle for PM-ship starts unclean.
As a retired Pranab digs into presidential caviar,
Moneyman Manmohan returns to be old saviour,
And the erectile tissue of the stock market’s rigid.
Yet an unperturbed rupee remains frigid.
So faces changed, but India waited for someone
Still selfish, leaderless, disparitous – again ‘twas done.
On a gloomy overcast June twenty nine,
The skies opened to pour into Bombay.
But that doesn’t mean that all is fine,
The news is assorted like any other day.
A tree fell to kill a twenty four year old.
Train services and roads were badly hit.
Though BMC promised all would be fit,
The cause: just 75 mm of rain, we’re told.
Lighter side: Petrol prices fell by rupees three,
But for Mamata, it’s still not satisfactory.
To presidential elections, attributes the queen,
Since they are scheduled for July nineteenth.
The fabled monsoons of industrial Bombay can deliver
Death blows. For we’re still agriculturists, remember?
Now they’ve found a fat scapegoat
To book for criminal negligence –
The agency maintaining Mantralaya’s switchboards.
How easily they insult our intelligence.
And near Bombay, in rural Maharashtra,
The Konkan Irrigation Development Corporation’s
Blessing of a supplier faces investigations –
Increasing payout 500% after contract creation?
What’ll now submerge thousand acres of forestland,
Will enter history as Kondhane Dam.
On ethics, giving states a pecking order,
Is a task as vague as the Chinese border.
Better progress is made, with energy we’ll burst
Reversing the order, starting with the worst.
How man doesn’t see the earth from the air
From the aircraft that he only invented,
And misses the ravage he’s caused everywhere,
On a planet, so excessively inhabited.
Compelled, now and then nature gives
Hints, we still turn a blind eye to.
Stolid, cretinous, and filthy as pigs,
Failing to see what will eventually brew.
We’ve excavated deeply, despoiled the earth
Even though there is no dearth,
Of places that we occupy already,
With needs and wants of the terrifically greedy.
But when water flooded in from the sea,
Still we exclaimed: what can the matter be!