America, when will you send your eggs to India?
I'm sick of your insane demands.
– Allen Ginsberg, 'America'
India I have given you all and now I'm a memory.
I'm a name for a playwright killed and a movement born on
January 1, 1989.
I can't stand my own countrymen's minds.
India when will we end the daily war?
Go fuck yourself with your nuclear bomb.
India, I'm not Sanjay Gandhi
I don't give a damn about
making Marutis.
I will write poems about tyrants spilling blood in the streets.
India when will you be a playground for your children?
When will you celebrate Holi with red flags?
When will you remind the world of the dead in Bhopal?
When will you be worthy of a single landless peasant in Bihar?
India why are the songs of Bhikhari Thakur about lean days?
India when will you stop sending your engineers to America?
I'm sick of the world's insane demands.
When can I appear on Doordarshan and shatter H K L Bhagat's dark
glasses with my smile?
India after all it is you and I who are perfect not the next world.
Your ministers are too much for me.
You made me want to be poor.
There must be some other way to settle this argument.