Now, Howzatt!
Now, you know why we’re cricket crazy!
It’s only there that we can decimate
The demonized nation
It’s only there we can feel we won.
With ugly bald-headed monsters blaring
Into our ears an unintelligible blabber
Around this fifth-year festival of ‘democracy’
Leading us to believe what the ‘real issues’ are-
Instructing us about what our priorities should be-
Showing us empty unfinished concrete buildings
Of statistics which seem to show us
We are becoming invincible.
We know they are fooling us but we have no choice
But to throw them back to power for lack of an alternative.
That is why we give our hearts to the exploits of Dravid and Pathan.
We think and believe that here is the true sign of our nation shining.
Now, please don’t tell us they were ‘fixed’ matches.
Our dreams would shatter. Our hearts would break.
Please let us keep our beliefs, however false they may be.
We have got used to living in a make-believe world.
We have reached the Orwellian 1984.

LONG LIVE TIRUVALLUVAR

Even birds dropped sitting on the
Tolerant shoulders of these bronzes
Who once voted them to power.
The five-year wait will end in
A renovation and more intense
Blood-curdling sermons and arousals
About his literary-political importance
And then after a while, yet another wait.

C.DEEPESH


WOUNDED INDIA

India is bleeding, yes, with the blood of the youth,
Who fall like pawns in the cruel chess game.
They boil, they burn, they exude dangerous passion
And fight for what the players stand for.
The players calculate, coldly, with arithmetic accuracy
And on the field, the game unfolds, move by move.
There is no checkmate here, there’re no loopholes.
Brothers send their kin to the Gestapo
And forget their dim identities.
They fall into the moulds prepared for them.
The players sit with square faces across
Round tables and they don’t even mourn.
India burns because of these foolish youth.

C.DEEPESH

Knotty, natty netas

It is election time again.
They serenade well-versed songs
In well-rehearsed tunes,
With voices that seem as exotic
As those of the gypsies who sing
For us in railway compartments.
They blow discarded conches,
Beat mildew-leathered drums,
And rake up fires from wounded embers.
They tear our flesh with gnarled claws
And now look for the poor man’s lost face
In the muddled kaleidoscope,
‘Where has he gone, my golden goose?’
And, ah! The pity is, we do away
With our votes, like we part
With some change, when
Filled with a sense of pity
For the singing minstrels in trains.

C.DEEPESH

From inside the train

Another lazy afternoon whizzed past me.
As I move, something misses out.
I feel as though moving into darkness.
Soon night will come. I can see
The sun on my left, its aura
Through the corner of my eye,
Struggling to stay longer. I know
It won’t, it can’t. There are no
Crowds anymore. People are
Done with their ablutions.
I can smell rain in the cool
Breeze splashing against my face.
I know it won’t rain, it can’t.
I can feel the speed- of my movement.
What will come at the end of my journey?
Most people with me seem to be doubtful.
But I know. I will reach another of my
Worlds. It is only a movement, from one
Familiarity to another.
The faces change and so do the relations.
But I know one thing for sure- I can be myself.
Well, almost!

C.DEEPESH