A winter morning.
Sentiments burn the road awoken by the gentle sun,
The cathedral spires poking the heaven behind.
What have you lost that you cry for?
The King was reciting the Bhagavad Gita
Ensconced on the throne of Indraprastha.
What belongs to you today,
belonged to someone yesterday
and will be someone else’s tomorrow.
The beggars’ kids in tatters
With bones gnawed by the fangs of winter
Nagged the developed citizens in cars at the lal batti
With roses, teddy bears, airplane models,
All made in India with Make in India’s plastic.
Whose India is it? Wondered the journo
As the King’s police arrived in vans
And heckled people who claimed insecurity
Not being the King’s own clans.
Children bearing placards shouted slogans whose
Meanings or future courses were drowned in winter haze.
The present, the present is what is yours,
Whether you be King on the throne, or beggar on the street,
Or a citizen seeking the security of his God.
Whose India is it? Wondered the knife
That lurked in the street’s bend
Ready to proffer the relevant twist
At the right time, in the present time.