Keshava Guha - on Narendra Modi

The Greatest Gujarati



I was born as a refugee from Karachi

Rolled through Delhi with his army,

Indoctrinated and impassioned, en route

To rescue Ram, to raise his spirit.



Call me Advani's accident, then- my

Mother reached the hospital by slipping

Through the cracks of the Sindhi god,

The man meant to save us all from secularism



And its related ailments, who failed. Our

Sins, and values, and constitution lived on

Surviving even the hand of Ram, and his kar

Sevaks, monkey soldiers reincarnated.



But it is Gujaratis, not Sindhis, after all, who

Make Indian history. And in our haste we

All forgot that Ram is dead, and dead forever.

That our hero was younger, bearded perhaps,


Charioted, a he-man, not a sadhu. There is

Only one saviour left, and it is him. His

Coming was prophesized, after all, for who

Has not heard of Kalki?

Aashim - new series?

Illusions?

Scenes of resentment,

brave gestures falter.

Stories told,

memories unfurled.

Laid bare....

We sought...

comfort?


The facade falls.


You loved I didnt.

I loved You didn't.


Head strong

stubborn to admit.

admit to scorn?



I question faith

belief maybe..


I fall






EyEs unforgiving.


truth...

the truth?

I loved you for me.

Roshan's latest poem - as usual, in good standing

I have seen the habits of necessity,

Traverse the lengths of many electric poles,

That flash by.

Each one, another segment that goes unheeded.

And as-if to mock evolution, everyone rushes to survive,

Some knowing the truth- but there is no other time-grinder,

Nor dignity-spout that can match the ease of struggling.

When there is no agony of choice, there is none in the chosen.


I have traversed those distances,

That flash by like montages of passed things,

Sat among those who have fleetingly seen,

What flashes by, only to look away or beyond.

Beauty is a luxury that they cannot revel in.

Other things have taken the place of love and beauty,

That drive the world by whip and tong.

And it is to this that they have pledged their duty-

As was done in the White City, to pay a debt of life.

Only to find that the served was living in death.


To be among them, who travel by habit,

To see the joy of a crisp morning, pass by as just another one.

Choice ground to a habit like powder,

Taken every morning with a word of faith.

The world must be free, to revel in their hearts.