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Netaji at Azad Maidan

I see him there,
in the throngs at Azad Maidan,
wearing a side-cap,
his hair neatly combed,
slick at his nape, head held high,
lips pursed in silent determination,
and his shoulders drooped
with some unaccountable weight.

Hunger strikes and human strikes,
young hands raised in
hope and anticipation,
angered at the Kasabs,
the tolerant us,
the depleting life styles,
the increasing price of lentils.

My hands freeze in time,
and my heart drums.
I ask him how is he alive?
Wasn’t he supposed to be dead in Taipei?
His ashes in that temple in Tokyo?
No, he says.
He never died
and he is carrying his burden ever since.

And all that we are forced to eat
are potatoes and the load of bullshit fed by
the whitewashed faces,
the turban-clad Indian man,
and the saree clad phoren mem
by the daily-getting-richer leeches
and the lying, cheating and
swindling businessmen.

What burden, I ask.
Isn’t his dream realized?
I wave around.
See, I say.
We have achieved freedom.
He looks around,
then at me,
Are you, he says,


  1. beautifully conveyed emotions,
    love the imagery and the enthusiasm in it.


  2. I wish Netaji is born again to end this greedy reign of Human Leeches who are a scourge to the society.


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