The following is a selection of poems from Stout and Tender, a collection by former Delhi University professor and social commentator Badri Raina.
§
Corona To Capitalist
Dear habitual marauder,
Here is what I wish to know:
Will you learn to behave yourself,
If I should now let go?
Or will you redouble your shenanigans
To profit-maximise,
Ravaging what remains of earth’s
Ice caps, forests, oceans, skies?
Will the lesson I bring to you
Lead you to a new address,
Where the fruits of work belong to all,
And “progress” is shared happiness?
Should you, however, wish away
My instructive pandemic,
Know that nothing will survive
My next terminal visit.
§
Farmers And The Sangh
You would think
That farmers would be
The Sangh Parivar’s first love,
Considering how they tend
The holy cow, and are
Custodians of Creation’s
Most pristine ambrosia,
Namely, cow’s urine.
You would think they
Would be beloved
Of the Sangh, considering
They live next to
Heaps of dung, which, as
You know, is therapeutic
Of the highest rung.
You would think
Farmers to be prized
Offspring of Bharat Mata,
Given that they are the
Realm’s Annadata.
And for being closest
To tradition which
Places custom above
The Constitution.
Stout and Tender, Badri Raina, Authors Upfront, 2024.
Think again. The Sangh
Is not as unlettered
As you might assume: of all
India’s protagonists, the
Parivar knows best
Which side its bread
Is buttered. Which
Is not with yokels of
The hinterland, but
Smart money-spinners
Of the Ambani-Adani brand.
§
Gaza 2023
With the strewn blood and bones
Of thousands born but yesteryear
For slaughter at the Zionist altar
Lies bespattered the politic
Conscience of a world
Bought and sold by Wall Street.
Oh, the evil, unspeakable evil of it.
Those that do not capitulate
To the brute usurper,
With Sam’s licence to kill,
Face a holocaust fate.
Those that were persecuted
Persecute with redoubled hate.
Honour to the hoi polloi of the world
Who come out in masses
Even in Tel Aviv,
To protest and to grieve.
Woe to governments
Who count their gain
And loss were they
To stand on two legs
Or crawl beneath Biden.
But, O Palestine,
Yet again I salute your spine,
Bolstered by unbending intellect,
That you die in droves for justice
But never whine.
How many are the nations now
Oppressed who could take
A leaf from your book,
And to their tormentors say,
“We will stand too, not bow.”
§
God And Religion
Tell me not of religion,
O well-meaning friend of mine;
God and religion are as apart
As Milkmaid from brine.
Failing in truthful, honest ways
To be goodnatured men,
They devised a fatal instrument,
And called it religion.
Visiting, I once asked God,
“Do you have religion?”
“I kept the gold,” he said to me,
“And left the dross to men.
Were they not to quarrel so,
Would I sleep sound in heaven?”
§
Safest Citizen In India Of Today
Name the safest citizen
In the India of today—
Is it cop or minister,
Judge or celebrity?
What a dated query you propose—
It is none of the above;
It is nothing that walks on two legs,
It is the holy cow.
No cop, minister, or judge,
No celebrity of any grade,
Dare annoy a cow and be spared
By government or cow brigade.
Indeed, if Indian woman would be safe
From two-legged animals,
Let her learn to be a cow,
And she will be safe as the hills.
And if you do become a cow,
You can be dark from tail to the horn;
For alone among Nature’s dark-skinned creatures,
Only a dark-skinned cow is twice-born.
§
Seminar On Madness
Madness is a topic much discussed
From ancient times to ours;
Now a crime, now disease,
Now an affliction of lovers.
Sane men keep safe distance
From unaccounted laughter,
Wishing to know what it is
That the laughter may be after.
Madness mocks the day’s routine,
Upsetting useful work;
Often just under a civil skin,
Waiting to go berserk.
So when just one goes mad the family
Attempts a private cure;
But when there are more the state appoints
Professional counsellor.
But when madness pricks the counsellors
Of nations near and far,
The only sane thing left to do
Is to go to an all-out war.
War lets out the maddened blood
And restores sanities
Which in time promise further wars,
Putting madness on lease.
§
The King Can Do No Wrong
The King was a byword
For showering benefactions,
Until, under the press of those
Who propped his piratical majesty,
His rugged beard began
To match his cruel eyes into
The instagram of an unsmiling hawk.
Before it was many years old,
His rule began to fray.
He could be seen to rob the wretches,
And enrich the robber barons of the day.
As disaffection came to be writ large
On common subjects’ faces,
He drew from his hollow chest
The last of his trusted aces.
Thundering menace at his detractors,
He yelled abominations
Which contravened the agreed
Rules and stipulations.
So, citizens took the matter to
The Commission overhead;
They pondered deeply for thirty days
To nail what the King had said.
On the thirtieth day they heard it right—
The King had never said a word;
It was no menace from the royal mouth,
But a royal fart that had been heard.
The stern Commission concluded
The matter with aplomb.
Justice to the Royal cause was done
The Commission had defused a stinking bomb.
The truth having been dissipated,
The King returned to the helm;
Soon the Commission was rewarded
For the keenest ear in the realm.
Badri Raina is a reputed commentator on politics, culture and society, having written for nearly all the major English dailies and journals in India. He taught at Delhi University.
