Roads, ransacking and rate cards

Illustrations/Uday Mohite

Do not go gentle into that
good night.
Rage, rage against the dying
of the light.
- Dylan Thomas

They doze in bulldozers
Mumbai. Maximum city,
maximum city minimised.
Mumbai, city of dreams.
Mumbai, city of seven islands.
Mumbai, the city of one million broken roads,
city of seven million potholes,
city of thousands of protruding pipes and iron bars.
Where once were roads, are now rods.
Shady by-lanes, leafy street corners, pretty side-walks, majestic stone pavements, once the character of this great city,
now lie buried in heaps of rubble.
Cement roads now resemble cemeteries,
dug, destroyed, damaged, desecrated.
Where we once walked, we now navigate, with extreme caution,
while they doze in their bulldozers,
those yellow submarines, unearthing land
excavating, eliminating,
ejecting,
Destroying countless memories,
terminating our walks, our jogs, our runs, our sprints, our sauntering,
and we bystanders, onlookers, residents, stakeholders, citizens.
Us. What of us?
Are we seething inside?
Itching to take to the streets? In protest?
But unable, because of inertia.
Has our rage morphed into an acceptance?
Or has indifference pervaded our DNA?

He told a joke
He told a joke,
fun he did poke
at an open mic.
His "keeda"… their leader,
they were incensed.
You called our "dada"…
a "gaddar!"
They came in hordes,
they came that night.
Forty odd men got a call.
"Come, we must seek
vengeance."
Men having dinner,
helping with housework,
helping with homework,
tucking kids into bed,
singing lullabies.
They got a call.
"We have to smash up a
studio."
And so, they went from loving father to vicious vandal,
a Superman-like change.
"Where you going papa?"
"To work, beta."
And so they invaded a studio,
smashed up the place,
hoodlums creating bedlam,
they threw chairs around,
destroyed a DJ's console.

The cops stood by and watched.
Who's paying for the damages?
Whether its our rubbled streets or a ransacked studio,
who's accountable for the destruction, the devastation,
Why can't autocrats be amused?
Why can't iron hands have funny bones?
Will we ever take to the streets, to protest our fate?
To rage against those reigning over us.
Or are we asleep with our eyes wide open.

He has a rate card
He has a rate card,
a tariff chart.
It's a menu…
Import, export…
A war against China.
"He's a badass," his fans say.
"He's bad and an ass," his
foes lament.
He's running riot,
the world is his oyster,
the globe his playground.
A Nero attempting to burn the world.
And us, why are we benevolent towards dictators?
Fascinated by facism,
driven towards despots.
"Oh, they're so decisive," is our chorus.
"He really knows what he wants."
"He speaks his mind."
Welcome to a Don-ocracy.

Rahul daCunha is an adman, theatre director/playwright, photographer and traveller. Reach him at rahul.dacunha@mid-day.com