Portrait of a City : BOMBAY GIN AND TONIC
The little boy with one arm,
follows you in the street,
Crying “Baksheesh, Baksheesh”.
A “baksheesh” is a reward,
Let me reward you for your misery.
To the assembled crowds,
Concerned about the future,
“Make way for progress”, the politician says
As he paints a rosy hued picture.
When he is done,
Heavy handed policemen
With their batons say,
“Make way for my Mercedes-Benz”.
Driving past the cricket fields,
Strung like pendants,
Along the Queen’s necklace of Marine Drive,
I see young men in white flannel,
Playing a game of cricket,
Endless , aimless.
I see other young men,
Along the promenade,
Naked torsos burned black,
In the unrelenting sun,
Pulling heavily laden handcarts.
In holy India, “Work is worship”,
In a land of holy men,
Who is truly holy ?
And in the shadow of the nuclear reactor,
In her lean to shanty,
A mother cooks a meager dinner,
On a hearth fed by twigs,
To feed her hungry millions.
Its June now,
The parched city awaits with bated breath,
The greening monsoon,
Washing away the summer heat and dust,
Bringing joy and rebirth of green.
Its August now,
Homes under five feet of water,
When will the rains end ?
I am driving to the airport,
Past the slums that greet me,
Reminders of just how bad it can be.
You may not know happiness,
Until you have known misery.
We take off now,
I unfasten my seatbelt,
As I settle back and enjoy,
My Bombay gin and tonic.
