Groundviews

Gotta Go

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.

 

 

 

Exit mobile version