A city so immersed in itself, that it doesn’t flinch when politicians change its’ name, it doesn’t bow down when it goes under water, it doesn’t sob when terrorists rip apart its’ heart. Why, because it suffers under a curse that has been “61 years” of making.
Bombay provides India 40% of its’ taxes, it provides the state of Maharashtra practically everything it needs to fund every MH village, every MH town, every MH district, while watching itself degrade down to lawlessness, corruption and imperialism.
A city - where politicians from small town seek to exploit it to such a degree of degradation that it matches their own birth-place. Where politicians believe its’ OK for large cities to face terrorism, where police are given lathis to stop a AK-56 wielding terrorist, where hawkers – for pittance – deprive its’ citizens of side-walks, where labour is given the birth-right to occupy public land, where politicians divide on language, religion, caste & creed.
Bombay, a city that’s looked upon as a treasure trove, from which riches are always taken away, but never returned or added. A chest that every politician dreams of governing, and promises the heavens to the common man to achieve it, but once in power feasts on its’ loins like a hyena.
A city, where journos, try to herd the public by repeatedly providing a medium for political class to calm down the treasure-trove slaves to prevent a revolt.
A city that smiles inspite of this.
No comments:
Post a Comment