Politics in this country is not just any profession. It is a money-minting, or rather, money laundering vocation that turns the human being into a blood-sucking vampire.
ADVERTISEMENT
Politics in this country is not just any profession. It is a money-minting, or rather, money laundering vocation that turns the human being into a blood-sucking vampire. A perfectly warm-blooded civilised human being turns into a remorseless, conniving, self-obsessed, selfish entity, all at the drop of a hat or, in this case, as soon as the neta topi lands on the head.
And the best part is that while the physical appearance of the neta continues to appear human-like, the true colours remain hidden under the layers of expensive khadi. The common populace that is fighting to make ends meet and provide two meals to its near and dear ones are the eternal bakras for these fang-happy khadi wearers.
The poor always look up to the neta to rid them of poverty, to provide them with clothing, with employment, with decent housing, with water in their taps, with consistent electricity in their homes, with security on the borders, with law and order in the streets, with justice in the courts, with peace in their neighbourhood. But alas! None of the above has been delivered over the 60-odd years of our independent existence.
We still continue to fight over our rivers, we still quarrel over our borders, we still stay prepared for power cuts, we still stock up for water cuts, we still ration our kitchens in fear of riots and curfews, we still continue to battle poverty, we still continue to grease palms, and over and above all, we still continue to look up to our netas.
And what do the netas do in return? Take our votes and sit in power, and continue to sit in power. Now this power, at times, comes after a bloodbath. Not from blood in the netas' veins, mind you, but with the drops that flow in the veins of the aam aadmi. Inciting religious frenzy, turning brother against brother, tormenting mother India and driving a wedge across the unity of this sacred, beloved country are just part of the plan and are matter-of-fact tools in the armour of the khadi-clad neta.
But do we, the aam aadmi, ever learn from our mistakes? That question really doesn't need an answer if we just look at the state of affairs in our country.
The North continues to burn for decades; paradise is lost, never to be regained. The East is chopped off in a battle of identity and association, and continues to drift away to neighbouring charters. The South has been battling over sovereignty, caste, language and region. The West was prospering but then ran into the language barrier and got stranded in the process.
So where does that leave us? Still standing in serpentine queues, waiting to ink our fingers, offering up our blood for sacrifice.