Skip to main content
                                      The Fall
In the resplendence of Indian spring there was a flurry of a different kind. The whole atmosphere seemed to be intoxicated.The entire stretches of India Gate were cordoned off and decked up like a royal bride of yore whose clan reigned over the hoi  ploi,  the mangy creeping creatures who were the keepers of these fattening  lousy  maggots who with a gargantuan lust devoured everything which appeared on this mother earth  material , ethereal , anything which they took fancy to.The king has gone?No he is in the time wrap and is spawning the screwed replicas of his alter ego.
The national flags were fluttering in the bright gravels of  India  Gate  and there was  excitement  in the air.  It was for the first time the sitting head of the most powerful part of the world had consented to be the chief guest on the Republic Day celebrations of my country. The  whole nation was overwhelmed.It seemed as  if half  the problems of the country had suddenly turned redundant.From  low  to high people  turned  into  jellies out of gratitude for the recently elected prime minister of India.It was indeed a great honour, the first time that  the US president  had accepted to be the chief guest of the occasion. Protocols  were  over-looked  and the prime-minister himself went to receive the state guest on his arrival.The PM was attired in   a colourful dress .The saffron  shawl adorned his persona and he had   suddenly   turned  so pliable that a little whiff of the wind propelled him to the proximity  of the chief guest.His fumbling hands sought his  and his grinning mouth widened with a grimace which subsided  only after the mutual hug.  The pride dissolved into ecstatic humbleness.  He  escorted the chief guest getting fiercely possessive of his each move.
The parade  was  on and the tableaus  following.Nations  eyes  were  on these two leaders.The PM had positioned himself  in such a way that he could easily access the hearing proximity of the chief guest. With his multi-coloured head- gear  he was preening himself  like a cock and  was trying to explain the Jharkhand tableau  in an  infatuous  manner.  Feeling a little uneasy over the non-committal  response of the chief guest he put to motion his left shoulder which nudged the straight stately and slim shoulder of the chief guest  and his head fell into nodding  and now   he let  his  head remain  slightly  inclined  nodding  and chewing at the same time.`
The  Hyderabad  House  looked  heavenly . The sand stone pathways   created a matted flooring interspersed with brightly blooming  flowers.It  was  the  aftermath of the culmination of the Republic Day Celebration.The breeze was cool and the air had taken the hue of the clean royal ambience. It could be felt and sensed even through  the  tv  visuals  to which the masses were glued.The PM in his pin-striped suit ,it being his fourth change –over since morning was in an expansive mood.  He was  facing the chief guest who seemed to be in the same attire a non- descript  suit  which took care of his comfort level nothing less or nothing more.His aquiline profile had a furrow  of deep reflection.His looks  too seemed to be distant.He took the tea with a non-flourish finesse  being offered by the half stretched left hand of the PM.The wide beaming smile of the PM had contracted a little  and  the  downy flakes of his grey hair flew in the air which rendered some profundity to his demeanor.The beautiful flowers beneath  them  , in a  subjugated togetherness  caressed  their feet  maintaining the aristocracy of a class  apart.

The PM having soaked himself  in the aura  of the chief guest  seemed elated. His bear grin created ripples in the golden pin-stipes of his pricy suit which had his name woven intricately all over them. They left with a flourish- the two of them-one in a swagger and the other bemused. 

Comments

Popular posts from this blog

THE CARDINAL SIN

 She looked  wistfully at the white blankness of her lap top . She remembered  the days when from a very young age she had ventured  into writing secretly in  her torn notebook which she would take  out  from her school bag.  Moreover,  She hardly remembered having  filled  it with  school work. Rather she had faint memories of  ever being a regular student. And those were the  days  when the parents, in the joint families, had other cares than  to worry about  the school affairs of their children. Moreover it was the responsibility of the family elders to see that the grand children were  tutored well. The schools were far away  from  home and the children had to walk down to reach them. In the way there were many distractions ,mainly they would linger on  on the  narrow  bridge which  they had  to cross  to reach their school. They often  stood there l...

THE PICTURE FRAME

Meeta  is  in her seventies.  She is  full of  zest  for life and seeks every opportunity to be in the company of her friends. Her salt and pepper short hair goes well with her plump fat body. Her style of dressing accentuates  her care- free demeanour . Her age doesn't hamper her in anyway. She  often cracks  jokes which generally veer to obscenity, to make her friends laugh , which for a moment unsettles them ,but then they go with the flow. The instinct to deride  looks  meaningless  at such  an age.  Meeta   had lost her husband lately  and her only son  lived  in the U.S . She cultivated a large number of friends and revived the distant family  relations. She was awash with money and threw lavish parties. Generally all her friends are  retired  house wives  facing the same empty nest syndrome. They had  now ample time  to indulge their fancies  which the...
                                              Opaque Sight The teeming moments between this moment and the ones which have slid past seem bursting at the seams entailing the vast repertoire of stormy material which have grown pricks tattooing my heart with a graffiti  lurking eternally to gobble me up rendering me a mute spectator of the world going around It  was a huge hiatus  a big blank between this moment and the buried  past. The other day I was walking over the corridors of Daryaganj  in Delhi. Stretched  out before me were the wide swathes  of books gone soggy and soiled in the dusty paths.People were walking past them and unwittingly treading  upon them which of-course could have been avoided if there was some thought for those beings of imm...