By Maaz Bin Bilal
In India, today, we have no money.
All’s been burnt for the greater good.
To think otherwise will cost you, sonny.
“Fuck your loyalism, I spent my whole day in a queue, honey!
The kids are crying, there is no milk,
Each day’s happiness needs some money.”
The farce remains no longer funny.
A Rightist’s measures compare to Stalin and Mao:
“Won’t you live with some inconvenience, Sonny?”
Else, they’re ready to put you in sacks of gunny.
Or send you to Pakistan or prison. As the
filthy rich, and even I, sit pretty with plastic money.
A banker spent nights at his office, in daytime handing out money,
He had a heart condition and is dead now, like other
elderly who died in tender lines. Will you look after their families, sonny?
The corrupt shored their cash, bought land, none were runny,
And banks have pardoned loans worth a billion wads.
The pauper’s right to property’s gone; where, dear Sir, is his money?
“It’s safe with the state, you watch out for your right to poetry, Sonny!”
Maaz Bin Bilal is Assistant Professor in Jindal School of Liberal Arts and Humanities at Jindal University.
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