As the newly-minted righteous rage,
Stamping the recalcitrant infidel
Under the weight of sentiment,
Nothing seems to give.
The ground under the feet burns
Like a fireball; street and alley
Menace with sword-arms of faith
And instant correction. Suddenly,
Those that reflect the least have
All the answers, while the brooding
Enquirers sink in their own spittle.
Everywhere, it no longer helps
To be well-meaning. Only
Those sure in their hate seem backed
By the politic puissant who own the state.
The skies do not break. No rain
Descends to wash the slithering
Slime of vengeance that looks
For murder at the first errant foot.
Only a drop or two of rain fall,
Like teardrops from helpless gods.
Who rue the day they freed their
False prophets to quell the hardy
Nay-sayers. Better a principled
Prodigal than a cunning usurper
The gods would say now, but
They no longer have their way.
An ancient Semul tree outside
My window goes stark in winter, yet
Returns with many a leaf in spring,
No matter how poisonous
The season’s wind, or how
Mortally sharp its sting.
I spruce my creaky spine and get up
To do the next needed thing.
Badri Raina is a well-known commentator on politics, culture and society. His columns on the Znet have a global following. Raina taught English literature at the University of Delhi for over four decades and is the author of the much acclaimed Dickens and the Dialectic of Growth. He has several collections of poems and translations. His writings have appeared in nearly all major English dailies and journals in India.
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