Shikari Shambhu’s all worked up:
he’s seen some felines prowl.
His cuppa tea still steams the cup
But Shambhu’d rather growl.
All geared up from head to boot,
Rifle on shoulder, he’s ready to shoot.
One look to his left,
he glints to his right.
He huffs and he puffs-
oh! what a brave sight!!
Behind that bush…
Right down the hill…
He tweaks his mush
all set for the kill.
Slowly and slowly
he goes all the way.
He thinks of nothing holy
while barging through the hay.
A whisp in his ear,
an ant up his leg,
a shriek from the rear,
makes him stumble on a keg.
Pinned on the ground
there’s a brief coloured pink,
with hearts inside round
and squares and in link.
But Shambhu is now blind
with a rage young things dread,
unless they’re the kind
that yearns for his tread.
Back-up comes quite soon enough,
with bricks and bats in place.
They pounce on pairs whose luck runs tough
and rejoice in their disgrace.
But the Ranger finds this errant boy
and pulls his dipped hat straight.
Not spared, were those who worked his ploy
when bars reigned in their gait.
The story ends, you might have thought
but a lady had dared to say:
Incarceration’s not our lot –
we are free, come night or day.
Small minds some, challenged, most,
picked their knits in what she said
and dropped it down like buttered toast.
How sandy was her bread...
Now as she awaits Matilda’s Waltz
or a robe that’ll stay her count,
the rest of us ponder the faults
of a woman that will take account.
So what if she dares?
Or are ‘his’ whiskers scarce?
What is the cause?
Does he really give a toss?
For a day Shikari Shambhu, cools his heels;
his cronies, toes in line.
The roses bloom and hearts still feel
and want and dream and pine.
And what’s all this about a Hindu state?
All saffrons have a home.
It’s these stick-weilding stooges of hate
that need a shackled dome.
Oh! Shree Ram! We beg for calm:
your Sita’s pride’s at stake.
Ravana looms to harm
your name, oh! how we ache!!