For a month I followed like a shadow,
hoping that you’ll emerge victorious.
My family brought me up singing your praises,
just short of placing you in our sanctum sanctorum.
I questioned if you were always right,
but never questioned if you were the best.
Your detractors didn’t have a place in my heart,
Adulation brought them up a few notches.
But with one sweeping motion of a hand,
Oh lotus, your weak roots were uprooted.
What remains now is an infection,
which strives to kill you from the inside.
In this country where vote by default is the hand,
one finger moving towards five fingers.
you created an alternative,
but failed to do much more than that.
Known for your discipline, you currently lack just that.
Filled with ideologues, you are now confused.
You are upheld in the heart of India,
but don’t supply blood to the head and feet.
Places which are red get it from the ideological left
and not from your anatomical left.
Dreams of a uniform civil code and abrogation of special status,
are as far fetched as Kasab being your new face.
Wake up Lotus, or your slumber shall turn into a coma.
