A cold winter noon
Perched atop a new ruin,
Toothpick stirring a remix bhajan,
Rocking in a lame chair, there I am.
Taking in the sun,
Thinking of the world, the poor
And sipping on my ***
‘’Ayele kanda, batata’’
Ah, there goes my line.
Why doesn’t the idiot shut up?
We can’t anymore buy onion and potato.
A lonely koel perches on the antenna
Clears its throat and tries to sing,
Hoot! Out of my sight you noisy thing.
Give me peace and let me think.
One more sip, the line comes again,
The down trodden!
A girl of sixteen was ***** and killed.
Who will punish the bustards? Such a shame.
A mother of two violated,
Shorn and paraded naked.
Served her right, the five magi hissed
Her threadbare boy shouldn’t a Brahmin have kissed!
The stocks went down; the Taj has gone brown,
Down with the rightists, down with the leftists,
Down with the middle-east, down with the Pakis,
And the Chinese, a foreign hand, don’t you see?
Rocking in the lame chair,
Taking in the sun,
Thinking of the world
And sipping on my ***
Jan 11, 2016
Jan 11, 2016 at 11:29 AM UTC
A cold winter noon
Perched atop a new ruin,
Toothpick stirring a remix bhajan,
Rocking in a lame chair, there I am.
Taking in the sun,
Thinking of the world, the poor
And sipping on my ***
‘’Ayele kanda, batata’’
Ah, there goes my line.
Why doesn’t the idiot shut up?
We can’t anymore buy onion and potato.
A lonely koel perches on the antenna
Clears its throat and tries to sing,
Hoot! Out of my sight you noisy thing.
Give me peace and let me think.
One more sip, the line comes again,
The down trodden!
A girl of sixteen was ***** and killed.
Who will punish the bustards? Such a shame.
A mother of two violated,
Shorn and paraded naked.
Served her right, the five magi hissed
Her threadbare boy shouldn’t a Brahmin have kissed!
The stocks went down; the Taj has gone brown,
Down with the rightists, down with the leftists,
Down with the middle-east, down with the Pakis,
And the Chinese, a foreign hand, don’t you see?
Rocking in the lame chair,
Taking in the sun,
Thinking of the world
And sipping on my ***
"Ayele Kanda batata"- cry of the hawkers selling onion,potato and other vegetables door to door in Mumbai. They are famous for their piercing high pitched cries.
Request permission to use this poem