You know enough about Prime Minister Narendra Modi’s achievements in the last three years, some of which even He doesn’t know. If Modi-ji made a promise at any time, consider it done!
“I dream of rain
I dream of gardens in the desert sand
I wake in pain
I dream of love as time runs through my hand.”
If you can take a break and spare a thought for a few elites (because who has time for the marginalised anyway) who have endured unprecedented abuse since May 2014.
It has been a bloody three years for left-liberals, particularly journalists, on social media. Bruised and battered for…
“Every breath you take
Every move you make
Every bond you break
Every step you take..
Every single day
Every word you say
Every game you play
Every night you stay…”
But Indians at large, are very nimble with ideologies. The same parents who shudder at the thought of their daughter dating at the age of 22, will egg the girl on to ‘find someone’ at 32- very often, when she has given up the belief in romance, and the will to fight her kin for love.
To their own good, all those who discovered what it is to be an ‘Englishman In New York’ 3 years ago, still have some steam left in them.
It’s hardly a surprise that one journalist, being a cricket-enthusiast, discovered early that in a test match, one has to stay on the wicket and the runs will follow. I wonder where he learnt that from?
As he fended off the body-line bouncers from the twitter trolls, I could imagine him singing,
“And if I’ve built this fortress around your heart,
Encircled you in trenches and barbed wire,
Then let me build a bridge, for I cannot fill the chasm,
And let me set the battlements on fire,”
With the ‘other’ now decidedly beyond the north-west border, embattled liberals must use the distraction to pick up the broken bones and sing some nationalist tunes, and buy time for the wounds to heal. Alternatively, they could say,
“There is no monopoly on common sense
On either side of the political fence.
We share the same biology, regardless of ideology.
Believe me when I say to you,
I hope the Russians (read: Pakistanis) love their children too”
But they live to fight another day, and for now, tell themselves,
“You’ll remember me when the west wind moves upon the fields of barley
You’ll forget the sun in his jealous sky as we walk in fields of gold.”