Does he say something
gesturing with his hands,
beating his chest?

Ten yards away
there is a gathering on the college playground.
Someone shouts over the microphone:
“You grabbed the Parliament, the Assembly;
And left us to the Gram Panchayat.”

That old man still sits
on the verandah of the Junagarh Block Office.
Look, how eloquently he speaks.

Does he say
the Prime Minister of Fiji,
who is of Indian origin,
is in the clutches of the rebels;
all the obstacles have been cleared
for both the Koreas to merge within a year;
the exchange rate of dollar
has gone down in this decade?

Does he say
in our country
the number of political parties,
big and small, add up to four hundred:
thirty of them form a government
with a ministry of twenty-four?

Does he say
the women’s page of a daily
has an exposé of Queen Victoria’s lover;
L'Oréal offers token gifts
to those who send correct answers to their quiz?
Or does he say
some socialist leader
is away in the U.S. for medical treatment,
his expenses totally borne by the government;
that there is pain in his chest?

That old man still sits
on the verandah of the Junagarh Block Office.

I think I have seen him somewhere
or at least his photograph.
Did the environmentalists take his snap
in the Narmada valley?
Did a photo of him, with an axe in his hand,
appear in the newspaper
when he protested against the proposed
Test Firing Range at Chandipur?
Did he join the opposition party’s rally
against the price rise of seeds?
Did he sit on the left side of the bier
of the young son who lost his life
in protest against prawn culture
in the lake Chilika ?
Did his photograph, as he sat,
his hand pressed against his chin,
appear in the national dailies
over the issue of missionary activities?

The platform at a distance of ten yards
is all agog with fiery speeches
but the old man on the verandah
keeps sitting nonchalantly and shouting.

On his face flashes
the image of my grandfather
who went back in despair for the fourteenth time
without getting his old-age pension,

the face of my father
who is busy in arranging money
to bribe the officials to get his quota
of seed and fertiliser,

the face of my younger brother
who went to Surat in search of a job
but returned an AIDS patient,

the face of my father’s elder brother
who, left homeless in the super cyclone,
waits for a few yards of polythene,

and the face of my own elder brother
who died of an accident in the Oswal factory
but whose name is not in the attendance register.

That old man still sits
on the verandah of the Junagarh Block Office.

Bharat,
when will your hand reach out to him?
Do you have the guts?