It’s tumbling down, Man. You gotta

know when you got to go, Gota.


You don’t have the luxury of waiting

for Mother India to take back


her child from that harsh Uncle China

whom your brother helped


to put holes in the national pockets;

and the precious foreign exchange


is flowing out to sea, and people have

no bread, or onions, or diesel,


and their children cannot take exams

because there is no paper.


How could you live up to the billing,

the Terminator? You had


assassins driving unmarked white vans

and killing willy-nilly.


You shot the white flag crowd to pieces

at Mullivakal. But, Man,


we did not know that Terminator

meant you would punch and kick


and starve your own children in the

South as well. You say pandemic


is to blame, tourists no longer come to

the once upon-a-time paradise.


But you, my–might have been–leader,

chose just this time to direct


farmers to stop using chemicals, to go

organic. Bloody heck, Machan,


the weevils, the roaches, the rodents are

buggering away and all


the stalks are pockmarked, the farmer–

to put it politely–ruined.


So you have now allowed nitrogen

fertilizer to return on ships


that will not unload as you have not got

enough foreign exchange


to pay for the mother lode. Catch 22,

Machan. Pull out the white flag.


Go home, the signs say outside your

residence. Walk. Walk fast.