An Epistle to Dr. Man Mohan Singh and His Men

by Binu Pathippallil Mathew

Joined I, the millions to send across your fame,
And proudly shared the posts with the claim,
That, you’re the world’s most learned leader,
Placed on the top rung of the political ladder.

Young men made network busy with multiple email,
Showering you praises and blessings like a hail,
And the mass merriment in the streets added gaiety,
To the advent of their new leader; the light of the laity.

The elders said it’s the millennium prophesied,
In the Scriptures and the poor peasants sighed,
A great relief with the hope you would wield,
Your magic wand to help them raise the yield.

Our neighbours feared!  You, in this new position,
Would win the world with your noble disposition,
And the foreign press predicted a boom in growth,
With bureaucracy back to bullish form from sloth.

But, like clouds in summer, dark and thick, we’ve seen,
Of late, a volte- face in your policies with unforeseen,
Taxes; an aberration from our traditions, with an urge,
To alter the basic structure, ignoring the people’s rage.

You screamed and sprang up like a sleeping cat, poked,
By a naughty boy, when The Washington Post hooked,
You with a small bait; “the underachiever”, a top title,
That turned your ego to challenge the poor with a battle.

The financial reforms focused to facilitate foreign firms,
Failed to flourish fruit in our fields and factory farms,
And faded the future of farmers, whose sweating blood,
Will form a furious fountain and flow like a flash flood.

Singh is the king!  But, of the corporate syndicates,
Led by the super Singh whose planning vindicates,
The country’s move to capitalist mode, throwing,
The masses to abject misery and poverty growing. 

Dude! Do not drive the destitute to dark dens of desolation,
Nor dictate their daily diets and deepen their degradation.
You bag the budget to beautify your bathroom; a venue,
To bathe and beat the battle of bulge, with our revenue.

The young chap, rich in blood but poor in the head!
Went on campaign, countrywide on our expense, led,
By an ambition to keep the poor firmly under his sole,
But failed to find in the villages, India’s real soul.

This mocker! A man of mixed breed mocks the mob,
With gimmicks from home tutors, a novice in the job,
Whom the poor once saw a savior in, lets down the youth,
Proving him a chocolate hero, with words from his mouth.

Our motherland made not by thy mother, the great madam,
Who plays a puppet show behind the scene. God dam!
Our prime minister, pulled by a petticoat, performs,
Mindless deeds, quick and serious, called ‘reforms’!

Walk down the valleys and into the villages, in plain,
And dine with the destitute for a day to feel the pain,
They take to eke out a living, under the heavy burden,
Of the new reforms, your team has made all of a sudden.

Fall not a victim to the vested interests of the west,
To welcome the wholesale witch, Wal-Mart, the pest,
That will leave lakhs of our retail vendors to perish,
On pavements with the hopes and dreams they cherish.

Bring not the relics of capitalist seeds from graveyards,
Of the west and plant in our poor peasants’ courtyards,
Just to raise the figures at the stock market and to spread,
Your reforms into countryside, denying our daily bread.

Make not our motherland, the great Gandhi envisaged,
To make a welfare state for all, that was once besieged,
By some alien forces in trading form, a banana republic,
To be controlled by a corporate consortium, in public.

Repair the rusted railing of your trailing regime and regain,
The lost glory, embracing the Gandhian values once again,
Lest the irate peasants and housewives revolt with ballots,
To uphold the pride of Bharat Matha, against your bullets.

.............Vande Matharam.............