The land of glory, antiquity, the land of religion,
The land of apathy, passivity, the land of corruption;
The land of colours, contrasts and omnipotent politicians,
The land of gullible masses and powerful magicians;
The land of snake charmers and ‘sacrificial offerings’ at the altar
The land of magic, mirage and vagrant breeze from the stars;
I’d see no evil, neither hear nor speak, for I harbour no plans to be another martyr
Have no confusion whatsoever please; I’m merely a detached spectator.
4000 years into trade, we’ve a ‘sale’ tag for practically everything-
Be it any qualification, opportunity or even our own offspring,
‘What you are seeing has already occurred,’ Krishna once revealed-
So perhaps goes the truth behind matches, elections being fixed;
‘All the world’s a stage,’ I was told, but I know its best actors
I dedicate these lines to thy name, I chant thy prayers,
Pelt no stones at me, sons of Gandhi, I’m not the whistle-blower,
What shall I do to make this clear, I’m only a detached spectator?
Where they fight for food, for God, even for love and peace
Where fighting epitomizes survival, fighting finally for the place to 'fall asleep’,
Where water and bread are dear, yet life comes cheap
And waiting to die of enemy’s nukes, poverty and disease may set your soul free.
Yet be not surprised so soon, mon ami, there are many more to come-
It's all about magic and mirage, didn’t I tell you simpleton?
Unnerve me not by those grudges jehadis, I know not any kind of warfare-
I said it once, I yell it again, I’m merely a detached spectator!
Where truth goes into hibernation every time money rises to speak,
And the jingling of coins is undoubtedly the best sound of music;
Where ascetics from the high thrones of their palaces do preach
And 330 million gods and goddesses dictate the way we live.
Where sun shines unevenly yet for some there’s always spring
But at dusk they all come to Ganga, to absolve their every sin;
Mercy! I plead judges, condemn me not unto the beast, I am no gladiator,
And I’m neither a mirror that may dare to reflect; just a trivial, dumb spectator.
Spare me movers and shakers, can’t be thy blue eyed boy,
I get dizzied by those skyscraper heights, let me be a small fry;
Oh, Rama, Krishna, be off to sleep, and to open your eyes, not you dare
Be not puzzled, I tell you, 'twas probably just another nightmare;
The poor hungry and ailing, the rich gobbling in mouthful
And the smiling Buddha’s proud portrait proclaims, `all things bright ‘n beautiful’;
Impertinence no more, shelter me my lords of jungle, I’m no traitor,
Rest assured, I’ll always be what I had always been - a harmless detached spectator!
(Had penned this satirical piece long time ago! Thought I'd share it here!)
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