f For Freedom

She was a model

A model of haute couture.

So high that it was designed directly by God.

Pot-bellied men and voluptuous women

Sat awaiting the next item.

And then, she walked along the catwalk

Not flaunting but apologetic

Of her near nudity.

Tattered clothes barely covering her.

A young body, all of fifteen years.

A small child

In the crook of her left arm,

Held as a prize, a memento for

The depravity and avarice of men

A wonderful fashion statement!

She looked straight ahead

At the pole bearing the tri-colour,

A remarkable symbol of

Sixty-three years of independence.

A sign of our freedom.

Freedom from what?

Well, never mind, freedom,

F-R-E-E-D-O-M and Independence.

She walked right up to the tiranga

And tugged at the rope

And brought down the flag

And wrapped it around her and the child.

And then for the final denouement

She brought out a bowl

And held it out

From beneath the Ashoka Chakra

To the guardians of fashion;

“f”, she said, “Always stood for food”.

Footnote: Let’s not forget it when we celebrate our Independence Day yet again.

“Hurry”, said the man from his rickshaw seat,
“Else, we would be late for the Mangal Pooja”.
His wife tugged nervously at the flowers,
She had gathered as an offering to the gods.
Her face was red with accusation,
Not just against the frail rickshaw puller,
But also against her husband,
“I told you not to hire this man,
He hardly has strength to pull,
Let alone pull with speed.
We shall have the curse of the gods
For being late for the Pooja”.

Pic Courtesy: Allianz Knowledge Site

The City of Joy,
Mother Theresa’s adopted city,
Was as unkind to the rickshaw puller,
As ever it used to be;
he could have been a slave under the British yoke.

Pot holes and filth on streets were not enough
To chastise the rickshaw puller;
It had rained heavily and hence,
He stood behind the pulling bar
In knee deep squalid water.
He had promised his family of three children
And an ailing wife, food,
After two days of starvation.
Their hope of meals, on the seat behind him,
Blasphemed him with all their might
For making them late for the prayers.

I saw the sweat on his muscles,
I saw the wetness of his brow
As he tried in vain to get the wheels
Out of the unseen ditch.
I thought how wretched was the man,
How cruel was life for him;
Could anything be worse?
And then,
And then, I looked at the couple on the seat.
Fuming and fretting,
Cursing and abusing,
Little did they know,
How close they really were,
To your temple, O God!

PRAYER OF THE FAITHFUL

Give me the good sense, O’ God,
Though I am most useless of the blokes,
To see sense in First Lady’s plans,
And to laugh at my Captain’s jokes.

I too want to rise, my Lord,
I too want to belong.
I want to be in tune with times,
I surely can’t do no wrong.

I too have visions of me, my Lord,
To up to the highest reach;
In the interim, I don’t mind,
To be called a worm, snake or leech.

To reach the highest of high, my Lord,
I don’t mind stooping so low,
As to kill my individuality,
And to say “yes”, when I mean “no”.

The only creed I have, my Lord,
Is my love for the blue oceans,
And somehow to make my own thoughts,
In sync with my CinC’s emotions.

I know that day won’t be far,
When I stand to get my just reward,
When everyone’d finally realize,
That I’ve really worked very hard.

Category: Poems and Lyrics

f For Freedom

TEMPLE OF GOD

PRAYER OF THE FAITHFUL

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