India, an idea, is the plasticine of a few
who mould it as per leader’s mind
and shout from every pulpit: it’s true.
Freedom indeed it is for them, and the led blind;
blasphemy if you call their myth,
or uncover their ugly truth.
Petty leaders battle for power,
no mercy to each other shown,
ever slicing India, tinier pieces to own;
but fearful of neighbours' guts and gun,
and wrapped in the vote-god toe to head,
dead doves they are -- how own loss they dread.
Sedition is new heaven of freedom,
‘hate' its hate-filled line, minority
dog tag a badge of honour, majority
a dirty slur; ‘The Red Saree’ troublesome
locked away, ‘Broken Republic’ given wing;
Self is the new India, Singh its dummy king.
Asurs alone churn the ocean -- the serpent
coils devs long beaten and quite bent --
bringing up with wine much venin given vent.
No hiss to alert fools he waits, silent,
for their fall; if he is not soon cut in two,
he will get India, the nectar pot, anew.
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