The Love Song of the Prime Sevak

Let us go then, you and I,

When the country is gasping for breath

Like a patient who has been given the extreme unction;

Let us go, to Kedarnath and Badrinath,

The muttering retreats

Of restless souls who have reached their wit’s end

And comic costumes guarded by a royal retinue:

Streets that follow like a tedious argument

Of my sincerest intent

To lead you to an overwhelming question …

Oh, do not ask, “What is it?”

Let us go and make our visit.

In the yards Pappus come and go

Talking of Sickularism.

The yellow fog that rubs its back upon the Mandikini,

The saffron that shrouds me as I withdraw to the cave,

Camera flashes lick up images for Twitter and Facebook,

And all other media that stand in drains.

Wait, wait, there will be time

For the yellow fog and saffron shroud to envelop you,

Rubbing their backs upon your pygmy chests;

There will be time, there will be time

To prepare a face to meet the faces that I choose to don;

There will be time to assault and lynch,

And time for the works of rashtra-building,

And time yet for a hundred indecisions,

And for a hundred visions and revisions,

Before the next surgical strike.

No! I am not Prince Dynast, nor was meant to be;

Am your Prime Sevak, one that will do

To swell a rally, start a scene or two,

Deferential, glad to be of use,

Politic, cautious, and meticulous –

And ready to wear the motley, at times.

I grow old … I grow old …

I shall wear the saffron closer to my 56 inch breast.

I have set yogis and sadhvis riding to thrones

I have put strategists in places that matter

We have lingered in the chambers of history too long

Now march we shall, march to the glory of our ancient civilisation

Till all human voices die on our way, and they sink.

PS. With due apology to T. S. Eliot for spoofing his Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock