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Palampur, Himachal Pradesh, India
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Sunday, March 8, 2009

Let us, the people,
Join hands and be one
Against our oppressors and exploiters.

They call us their strength,
The power lies in their hands
They call themselves humble servants of the masses,
They force us to bow to them.
Their joy soars to the seventh sky
Seeing us genuflect before them.

Their weight and girth increase like the waxing moon;
Our blood diminishes like the waning moon.

We pay the taxes
Perks they enjoy just by raising hands,
Whoever it is our turn,
Committees are formed, commissions constituted for the dole
By the time that auspicious time comes
For the dole to be doled out
The very purpose seems defeated.

We work day and night
With full circle of the Earth round the Sun
Circle after circle,
The harvest they reap;
The trees we plant, the fruit they eat;
The fruits we pluck, the juice they drink;
Their cheeks redden, our cheeks wane;
Their princes enjoy the cake and ale, our Lazaruses crave.

We are the ones who build palaces,
For resting our head we have no ground;
Soft and silky clothes bedeck their bodies,
We cry for linen to shroud or bones.

We are the strength,
We are the means
Of our land’s sky-high ideals and accomplishments;
These they claim as their achievements.
Shoed are we away
Even when we dare to have a glance of our finished work;
They say the money’s their
We have no right to claim
Even the sweat and blood we shed.

Even today, in this third millennium
Of known human history
We have to plod and sweat, starve and shiver
Without any reward for our sweat and blood.

Horrendous! Horrendous!

Let’s, the people, be one
And join hands
Against all the oppressions and exploitations,
Against all the kings and queens,
Against all Temurs and Czars,
Against all Hitlers and Napoleons
For our bread and butter.

Let us, let us, let us
Join hands to show our might.
Sunday, February 8, 2009
A sudden shower of bull
Enough to flood Mumbai roads
With blood and heart wail.

Top heads of MP roll down on ground
The bullets jackets mere fake and hindrance;
303 Rifles they took against the AK47
Refused to fire; yet they stood and fell.

Terrorists held Mumbai, nay India, in their grip,
All cried and wailed for a free breath.
Fire, grenades, bullets and bombs
Oberoi, and Nariman House.
Smoke rose to the sky. Hopes and aspirations
Lost the cloud of smoke.

The drama continued for full 59 hours,
Instead of jubilant tourists came out
The bleeding, cold and dumb bodies,
The wailing hearts weeping for the lost
Dear ones who jostled and laughed
A short while ago. The fear lurked
In the minds and hearts
Who were fortunate to survive
The onslaught of the ghastly attack;
Tears and hiccups told their tale in silence.
Mumbai stood awe struck, awe struck
Gaped whole India.

Our polity so quick to act for filling coffers
So slow to ask for any help
So careful about the commission
So dizzily our bureaucrats sat on the file
Demanding a plane for the NSG
For quick carrying the squad to the sight
Of any such emergency.
Why should they bother? They are safe.
Safe they are in the hands of our army,
Commandos and MP; for they have to die for them.
They have to die for them
In their old and rusted weapons,
In their dummy bullet-proof jackets.

It took some six hours to take commandos
From Delhi to Mumbai for the action
Which demanded Nation’s immediate attention.
Those who tried to defy the devils in the Mumbai streets
Fled to run for their lives; their 303 refused to fire.

They who were to act in haste
Cowered in quilts before jolted to stir
By the shrieks and cries of the Nation.
Perhaps they mused how to mint money
Out of this sadistic, horrendous play.
Sorry for them! Sorry for them!