Source: Reuters 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 see...
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