Enriched with tales of such cultural history,
Your hassle and impatience remains a mystery.
You cradle in the lap of religion,
Even in colours you make distinction.
Your princes and their crazy fads,
Followed by the large comrades,
Venture in these dusty streets,
Wave saffrons as each face them greets.
Their frivolous promises blare so loud ,
Their vision that shall make you proud.
Princes among themselves do fight,
In the lust for power, thus loosing sight.
But their ‘Great Vision’ for the holy city,
Has left no place for common pity.
Of blessings and faith, you do the talk,
In the street my friend, look as you walk.
Blessed are you with all the joys
Blessed are your children to play with toys,
When wrinkled hands beg for a bite,
Children dream under lamp lights,
When crippled legs long to run,
The blind wonders how bright is the sun.
Blessed are you that you have it all,
Yet your ‘Vision’ be so small.
You think all your problems will meet the end,
When four walls of sand and bricks shall stand,
With idols bejeweled with diamonds and stones,
And gleaming clothes, sitting on golden thrones.
You crib and cry and protest and strike,
Is this really what your God would like?
Your insanities in the name of reverence
To Almighty, is more of impertinence.
You are worse than a stubborn child,
Your ways, vicious, grim and wild.
But, alas, my words may appear
As blasphemous to your faithful ear.
For your music does nothing but say,
“Mandir yahin banayenge”.