In Lighter Vein: Coexistence of corruption and democracy

There is nothing to wonder about the symbioticism of corruption and democracy. In fact, a democracy is the melting pot of corruption, that is why corruption is quite democratic in its functioning and approach. Corruption makes no distinction or discrimination on any grounds whatsoever. Money is the only criterion. One has to donate for smooth functioning of the institution. It is proportionate to the objective in sight. Thus it seems that the spirit of proportional representation motivates in a corruptive culture. Corruption is a sort of NGO having an unannounced licence for functioning freely and thus having a respectable place in society. It is disturbed by those elements only that are deprived of its benefits exactly like the opposition in a democracy.

In fact corruption is so flexible in its nature that it fits in and makes comradery with any and every form of democracy, such as, imperial or monarchical democracy, dictatorial or martial democracy, oligarchical or just a functional democracy of any hue red, green or orange.

The real objective of corruption is harmonious development of society and evolution of a culture of abundance, prosperity and power. That is the declared objective of a democracy also but the difference in approaches make things difficult in a democracy. While objectives are easily, smoothly and in no time are achieved in a corruption oriented or corruption infested society which may take a life time in a conceptual democracy.

Corruption believes in taking a selected group, just like VIPs in a democratic society, to the highest position in no time. And just like democracy corruption believes in transparently dividing the society in two sections of haves and have-nots with an ever widening schism between the two.

One fails to understand why with so many similarities and common features they do not seem to pull together. In fact, they do. It is the mischievous few who try to show it otherwise. Both carry on side by side just like the opposition and the party in power in a democracy. Why not recognize the eventuality and inevitability of corruption and set all controversies at rest. And let the elderly non-beneficiaries live in peace. And let the pious hoard both spiritual and material wealth. And let the naïve incapable of understanding realities suffer for their ignorance.

There is one definite difference between the two. While democracy is corruptible corruption is incorruptible.

How many structures

How Many structures would you Demolish?

(on the demolition of Babri Masjid in 1992)

The mosque and the mineret, the dome and the monastery,

The bridge, Well, tavern and the highway,

Madrasa, schools, thousands of seats of learning,

After all, how many structures would you demolish?

You are demolishing dwellings! Do it.

You are making the nation sick! Do it.

You are doing everything useless! Do it.

You’ll stremble at every step.

After all, how many structures would you demolish?

Every leaf of history is a stone sill,

You may read it if you have a dering heart,

You’ll repeat on your wrong deeds,

Against how many rocks will you dash your head?

After all, how many structure would you demolish?

I’ve come to settle the heart’s dwellings,

I’ve come to tell you what is good and bad,

I’ve come to show you the straight path,

I tell you, you’ll be decived.

After all how many structures will you demolish

Urdu version

Bread

If you don’t have a bread today, don’t worry

Your wealth is, after all, safe,

Locked in steel almirahs,

Read its account in every paper,

See on TVs also.

If you don’t have a bread, you do have a TV,

What do you say, you don’t have a TV?

Do your children not go to school?

You naïve! How could you be satisfied?

Come, let me tell you the secret of bread,

Got a suit on hire from somewhere,

And rent a car too,

Arrange for a dinner,

And forget the bread,

It will come itself along with every leader.

The Urdu version

Joys That Did Not Suit

Since the joys bit me,

‘Am frightened and scared,

For, a joy,

Somewhere,

Jotted in my luck

May be hiding in ambush.

O God! Save me!

The share of my joy

May be bestowed upon your slave,

Whom it suits.

The Urdu version

Forgetfulness

How long it is when the thought took leave,

Don’t remember since when this audacious tongue

Is voiceless,

Longing for words and speech,

How long it is that the keen eye has no fondness

For the fun,

Don’t remember how long the ears are deaf,

Not listening a song or the groan,

How long I had forgotten about the lips and cheeks,

How long it is that the lock is the keeper of every

Door of pleasure,

How long it is that the ship of every dream is caught

in the whirl,

Since when the skirt of life is rosy and glowing,

How long it is that the wise have forgotten

The manners of madness.

Truly speaking, since that time I don’t remember anything.

Returned shocked and disturbed from the

Celebration of civilization,

With the pangs of life pressed to the bosom,

The crazy brokenheart is living with a life on fire.

The Taste of Pain Persists

Are the chains broken?

Are the prisoners set free?

Are the accounts of pain closed?

Is there none broken by cruelty?

Is there none suffering from hunger?

Does the tiller owns the land?

Are the poets left heart-broken?

Are the flames of poetry dead?

Or lost in increasing din?

Who will now put lamps (of heads) on the killing post?

As the night of tyranny lingers on,

Will a Masiah come again?

Or would carry his own Cross?

Every sufferer of pain

The Urdu version

The Whisper of Happiness

Breeze’s gentle thumping of the flower,

Shower of the dew on petals,

The peace offer of the pleasant stroll,

Or a pleasant and intoxicating act,

For recapturing a refreshing dream,

Or a flowery hands’ thumping of the heart.

What is this! My God!

Who is looking for sparks?

Opening the book of life,

Turning it leaf by leaf!

Chapters of the book have slept,

Dreams of beauty spots have slept,

The pangs of youth have slept,

Questions are awake,

 but all the answers have slept.

Whose finger it is on life’s violin?

Tinkering like a stroke,

The tunes that have slept in the string,

Who has come to wake them up?

Is it the mad tide or a storm?

Breaking the silence of Hoogly,

Shaking the boat,

That had, a long time ago, crossed the river,

Carrying the tired boatsman,

In the arms of the quiet bank,

Waiting for the sure appearance

Of the trustworthy morning star.

The Urdu Version
The Urdu Version P2