The following is a selection of poems from Stout and Tender, a collection by former Delhi University professor and social commentator Badri Raina.§Corona To Capitalist Dear habitual marauder,Here is what I wish to know:Will you learn to behave yourself,If I should now let go?Or will you redouble your shenanigansTo profit-maximise,Ravaging what remains of earth’sIce caps, forests, oceans, skies?Will the lesson I bring to youLead you to a new address,Where the fruits of work belong to all,And “progress” is shared happiness?Should you, however, wish awayMy instructive pandemic,Know that nothing will surviveMy next terminal visit.§Farmers And The Sangh You would thinkThat farmers would beThe Sangh Parivar’s first love,Considering how they tendThe holy cow, and areCustodians of Creation’sMost pristine ambrosia,Namely, cow’s urine.You would think theyWould be belovedOf the Sangh, consideringThey live next toHeaps of dung, which, asYou know, is therapeuticOf the highest rung.You would thinkFarmers to be prizedOffspring of Bharat Mata,Given that they are theRealm’s Annadata.And for being closestTo tradition whichPlaces custom aboveThe Constitution.Stout and Tender, Badri Raina, Authors Upfront, 2024.Think again. The SanghIs not as unletteredAs you might assume: of allIndia’s protagonists, theParivar knows bestWhich side its breadIs buttered. WhichIs not with yokels ofThe hinterland, butSmart money-spinnersOf the Ambani-Adani brand.§Gaza 2023With the strewn blood and bonesOf thousands born but yesteryearFor slaughter at the Zionist altarLies bespattered the politicConscience of a worldBought and sold by Wall Street.Oh, the evil, unspeakable evil of it.Those that do not capitulateTo the brute usurper,With Sam’s licence to kill,Face a holocaust fate.Those that were persecutedPersecute with redoubled hate.Honour to the hoi polloi of the worldWho come out in massesEven in Tel Aviv,To protest and to grieve.Woe to governmentsWho count their gainAnd loss were theyTo stand on two legsOr crawl beneath Biden.But, O Palestine,Yet again I salute your spine,Bolstered by unbending intellect,That you die in droves for justiceBut never whine.How many are the nations nowOppressed who could takeA leaf from your book,And to their tormentors say,“We will stand too, not bow.”§God And ReligionTell me not of religion,O well-meaning friend of mine;God and religion are as apartAs Milkmaid from brine.Failing in truthful, honest waysTo be goodnatured men,They devised a fatal instrument,And called it religion.Visiting, I once asked God,“Do you have religion?”“I kept the gold,” he said to me,“And left the dross to men.Were they not to quarrel so,Would I sleep sound in heaven?”§Safest Citizen In India Of TodayName the safest citizenIn the India of today—Is it cop or minister,Judge or celebrity?What a dated query you propose—It is none of the above;It is nothing that walks on two legs,It is the holy cow.No cop, minister, or judge,No celebrity of any grade,Dare annoy a cow and be sparedBy government or cow brigade.Indeed, if Indian woman would be safeFrom two-legged animals,Let her learn to be a cow,And she will be safe as the hills.And if you do become a cow,You can be dark from tail to the horn;For alone among Nature’s dark-skinned creatures,Only a dark-skinned cow is twice-born.§Seminar On MadnessMadness is a topic much discussedFrom ancient times to ours;Now a crime, now disease,Now an affliction of lovers.Sane men keep safe distanceFrom unaccounted laughter,Wishing to know what it isThat the laughter may be after.Madness mocks the day’s routine,Upsetting useful work;Often just under a civil skin,Waiting to go berserk.So when just one goes mad the familyAttempts a private cure;But when there are more the state appointsProfessional counsellor.But when madness pricks the counsellorsOf nations near and far,The only sane thing left to doIs to go to an all-out war.War lets out the maddened bloodAnd restores sanitiesWhich in time promise further wars,Putting madness on lease.§The King Can Do No WrongThe King was a bywordFor showering benefactions,Until, under the press of thoseWho propped his piratical majesty,His rugged beard beganTo match his cruel eyes intoThe instagram of an unsmiling hawk.Before it was many years old,His rule began to fray.He could be seen to rob the wretches,And enrich the robber barons of the day.As disaffection came to be writ largeOn common subjects’ faces,He drew from his hollow chestThe last of his trusted aces.Thundering menace at his detractors,He yelled abominationsWhich contravened the agreedRules and stipulations.So, citizens took the matter toThe Commission overhead;They pondered deeply for thirty daysTo nail what the King had said.On the thirtieth day they heard it right—The King had never said a word;It was no menace from the royal mouth,But a royal fart that had been heard.The stern Commission concludedThe matter with aplomb.Justice to the Royal cause was doneThe Commission had defused a stinking bomb.The truth having been dissipated,The King returned to the helm;Soon the Commission was rewardedFor the keenest ear in the realm.Badri Raina is a reputed commentator on politics, culture and society, having written for nearly all the major English dailies and journals in India. He taught at Delhi University.