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Wake Asia Wake - Part One - 8

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Wake Asia Wake - Part One - 8

Wake not to feel that all is maya  all futile all cyclic dust
           even if it were so the pain lingers   pain is cantankerous
           in the beggar’s strife-torn eyes  in the child’s fly-infested blown belly
                                                                  Wake! India! Wake!
All is not illusion   all is not fake   all is not a passing phase
          the hurt lingers on in the memory of those who died in pain
          forsaken  forbidden  trodden on  and driven under
                                                          Wake! India! Wake!
To lose even a day   no   to lose even an hour
         is to put millions on the block
         is to set them back by aeons
                                                      Wake! India! Wake!
Rise with the sun   rise fresh from yesterday’s toil
         from poisoning TV commercials and commercials’ mightily airy-fairy movies
         from jingling song and bill-cooing in gardens   from worshipfuls of Bollywood idols
                                                            Wake! India! Wake!
 Lull not your finely-tuned senses in lilting goose-pimply melodies
         let not your far-sighted perceptions become dulled in spurious imitations
         here in the West they marvel at the speechless facial rhythms of a Satyajit Ray
                                                                      Wake! India! Wake!
How do you manage to listen day in and day out to the sentimental romantic quatrains
         set to rumba and samba cinematic background less-than-roaring forties’ dance music
         under a decor of piped sky-lancing and prancing tinny gushy melodramatics
                                                                      Wake! India! Wake!
Before your children grow up thinking reality is a coloured film-strip in hot gasping halls
         where plumpy heavily mascara-ed curly moustachio-ed pot-bellied half-men
         chase blown-up versions of the eternal Sita  oozing midrift flesh heaving in rosy gardens
                                                                      Wake! India! Wake!
Wake and take the future by the horns   it’s no toro that will gore you into the past
         you need no muleta for a faena with the dark and terrifying future
         the future’s just a bull raised on cow’s milk in green pastures
                                                                      Wake! India! Wake!
(Continued in Part One - 9)

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