At Sixty Four Poem by Aniruddha Pathak

When freedom falters, reels under assault,
Even at sixty four we hardly walk,
Sixty four and still way behind the clock,
Sixty four and faulty things we can't halt.

We call us free, but live by others led,
Others dictate what be watched, what be read;
Our views subdued and have to be guarded,
And pay heavy price baking our own bread.

We have pizzas parcelled home hot at once—
But wait for hours ere comes home ambulance,
And once at hospital everyone shuns,
For, a patient must have immense patience.

Car loans easier and quicker can come,
Study loans— stiff rates for any a sum;
And easy comes a reserved quota seat,
That seldom can merit-listed names beat.

Multiplex, malls rise in less than a year,
Roads and bridges are built in slowest gear;
Lemon juice is flavoured artificial,
Dish-wash liquids claim they have it real.

Easy we spend small fortunes on house rents,
But still have no space for the old parents—
For, leaving aside things that be the best,
We copy basal things ‘las from the West.

A menial hand abroad when dollar-paid
Sneeze at blue-collars here as infra grade;
For, once selling at mighty Dollar's par,
The Rupee is now left behind and far.

But we follow the western wisdom still
Designed and deigned to defend self interest,
Whilst we play polls from atop a tall hill,
The country comes last from this lofty crest.

Our first few words oft at a road-rage slam
Scarce are ‘sorry', but ‘do ye know who I'm? '
We are gaga on grand tours overseas,
But local spots languish as ‘no, no please'.

We keep voting varied faces unfair,
Whilst the fair and honest poorly do fare;
We talk of art and culture sans refrain,
But throw out made-at-home MF Hussain.

Marriages we claim are heavenly made,
But two in love, alien caste, we behead;
Prohibition's still a favourite pet,
And ‘dry islands' beat records of the wet.

Female forms worshipped are with fervent faith,
Mothers, goddesses placed are under dome,
Whilst still get second-class status at home,
And daughters still at birth are done to death.

Immoral politicians still endure—
To some even fodder has a great lure,
What they stand for hardly much heft carry,
Even Gandhi's words and deeds they bury.

Civil servants, servants nor yet civil,
Play dons, but dance on minister's vile will;
Being late at work is never a crime,
But privilege is virtue all so prime.

At sixty four if not yet liberate,
Fifteenth August can be any a date,
Not an august day to rededicate,
A date perhaps to blame us for our fate!

For, are we not a party to all this?
Let's blame us for a place in world to miss;
A nation gets grey rulers it deserves,
Get leaders that add to their rotund curves.

Magic of India people's wisdom is,
Celebration of freedom, if ye please,
If what at stake is to us precious,
Let's with our soul's spirit lift our status.
_________________________________________________
On 15th August, Satire | 04.08.11 |