The Inquisitor, A poem by Badri Raina


Badri Raina, Outlook, June 11, 2013

Dear master Frankenstein,
Why dost thou sulk in woe?
Is there a fruit I have plucked
That you did not first sow?

When you brought the Dhaanchaa down
A few thousand wrong ones died;
You said Bharat is back on track,
Go celebrate in pride.

When in the year 2002
I built upon that lead,
You boldly saved my singhasan
You never cursed my deed.

Since then you have had second thoughts
About this, that, and the other,
Reaching out to the skull cap,
Calling Jinnah brother.

Alas, O master, our yuppee class,
Bred by Manmohanomics,
No longer feel so well disposed
Towards such secular tricks.

It is their war cry let us have
A super saffron nation,
Led by a Führer who may not brook
The slightest deviation

From money, muscle, maraudery,
From paisa, puja, power;
Such is the future they wish to have
Conjured into their bower.

You bred the creature suited best
To furnish them that future;
Why turn your favour now from me,
O highly venerated teacher?

This last throw of the dice is all
We have to try the summit;
Should we succeed you will say
Ah lad, you have done it.

Should we fail, as well may be,
We will take to the woods,
Breeding monsters new and keen
Equipped to deliver the goods

When Satyayug shall come again
To bless this spiritual land;
Then from the hill top we shall stretch
A withered helping hand.

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