Wow what a pleasant surprise!
I found this scribble/poem “GDP and Bhelpuri” written some 25years
back in the Sahitya Akademi journal (published in 1998, I must have scribbled
it in 1996) that I mentioned in my last blog entry. I thought I had lost it
like many of my early writings in rain flooding and carelessness, though
mediocre and naïve attempts but loosing writings that one spent lots of time,
effort and thoughts is rather painful. So, discussion on GDP did happen while
we hanged out on beach for sunset but nobody was eating bhelpuri (I though prefer peanuts -salted roasted in hot sand, that is quite common in Kerala during evenings. Amazingly crispy warm peanuts that I haven't really come across anywhere else in India, in Karnataka you get boiled peanuts) nor throwing
stones at stray dogs. I wanted to work a contrast to bring in the absurd and some
fun. Anyway, these were shallow attempts and I was quite impressionable
impulsive fellow without much reading habit to get reference for good writing
unlike knowledgeable youngsters these days (I mean, look at youngsters like Greta Thunberg or Amanda Gorman and their insights, its mindboggling). Serious reading of literature
happened few years later in libraries of Delhi. I mostly kept scribbles to
myself. Then this random fellow pushed me to get it published (“Get it published
man”, those days youngsters said man and not dude, now they say bro, recently I heard yo!). So here we are. Again, it’s
quite mediocre and embarrassing attempt and travesty on idea of great art form
called poetry but I still find it quite funny in a stupid way. Reminds me of
the lost youngster trying to earnestly understand things to find his way
through the careless world.
GDP
and Bhelpuri
This
friend of mine
would
discuss GDP only
eating Bhelpuri.
Crushing
the puri of the Bhel,
with
saddened mockery,
loosening
his executive tie,
he would
discuss
crashing
of shares at BSE;
gulping
generously,
he would
suggest,
The
Finance Minister should show restraint in fiscal measures.
Flexing
his fatty muscles,
he would
suggest,
the rupee
needs to be strengthened,
Ogling at
the legs on the beach,
he said,
the
economy needs to be in good shape.
Pushing
the urchin away,
he would
talk of
the need
for liberal credit policy,
Stamping
the sand castle,
he would
say
Investor
confidence needs to be built.
Whistling
at the dames,
he would
express concern,
at the
falling value of the rupee.
He would
flow his hand,
over the
receding hairline,
and tell
me about the horrors of recession.
Taking a
stone
he would
throw it
at the
mongrel,
Straight
and direct.
And say,
Foreign
Direct Investment should increase.
As the
mongrel howled
in
protest
He would
look disgustingly
and
scream
It's the
political set up
"Democracy,
the bloody hell."
As we sat
watching
the sun set,
into the
stretched blue Arabian Sea
the sky
filled with
beautiful
pink, blue and red.
He would
shrug
and say,
"you
know what, Saju
it’s all
a mess,
only God
can save this country now."
Looking
up,
he
repeated,
only God
can
as the
birds flew motionlessly
into the
sunset.
*Saju in the scribble is my first name, for those who only know depalan.
