Farce On The Death Of Boss Poem by Diwakar Bhatt

A few days back, it was a Sunday,
Opened the newspaper while having a sip of tea,
On a message attention I did pay,
Third day ritual after death of ex-boss happens to be.

Called my few buddies, what to do,
Reluctantly they agreed to pay homage to the dead,
Bought a flowery wreath without ado,
Opened my book of quotes learned a few to be read.

The venue, to my amazement was a lawn,
In a five star hotel, lush green and opulence high in sight,
Dais, decorated, large portrait of dead shown,
Garlanded with roses, jasmines and fragrant lilies white.

Gathering large, men and women of all stature,
Came to wish him a rest in peace free of all his woes,
Saffron clad holy-man looked of good nature,
Who seemed an expert to convene such mournful shows.

At the right moment all were told to be silent,
Few minutes silence observed for the peace of passed soul,
Holy-man chanted verse from Gita with talent,
Discoursed on the mystery of birth, death and immortal soul.

Then started the paeans in the memory,
Of good deeds done, his achievements, his efforts sincere,
For the good of society, and the glory,
With which he conducted his duty, known for his kind care.

But in the crowd, away from the dais,
Whispers of contempt venting from the hearts of sufferer,
Came hissing, young dames with no bias,
Retorting how he used, abused them being a boss of their.

Another rebellious voice I could eavesdrop,
Telling about his rapaciousness and untamed desires many,
While sitting at helm of affairs at the top,
Swindled govt. money, accepted bribes without hesitation any.

I went a little backward in the mass,
Of people standing, wishing him a hell rather than heaven,
Enquired, why such venomous remark to pass,
Vehemently told all about his exploitations not to be forgiven.


Soon it was a mix of blaring praises,
And glaring remarks in undertones, I was totally at a loss,
How can a human have many faces,
Greedy, humane, demonic, many different faces of a boss.

After last word spoken to end the ritual,
Which took a long noon, people tempted to leave in hurry,
Road got blocked by the traffic plural,
Of cars, bikes, cycles, all cursing the dead being stuck in flurry.

Why should we speak ill of him,
We are also having the same creed, justification we make,
For all our deeds or fanciful whim,
All masquerade at times, but try we should be true for goodness sake.