Figuring, fingering and twirking dreams

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Fingering age or, figuring the damned thing cannot be accurate without using the fingers in case one does not have the luxury of an abacus. One has to finger the computer keyboard to figure out the exactness of as delicate a pie as age. That way, fingering is one of the many other genetically profane terms that may officially or otherwise be accepted in a civilized society as yours, more so, where twirking is excitingly acceptable.

In the course of my mental calculations, I concluded that my Jharkhand has completed 13 years of statehood and is now busy limping its way towards the fourteenth year, the political dream merchants having hacked off one of its legs of hope.

It was a nascent state made emphatically nascent by ministers, politicians and political parties who pledged socio-economic progress to the trusting state denizens who continue to trust rattle snakes and their ilk in khadi garbs.

The years commencing 2013 BC through to 2013 AD have seen the growth of shattered hopes parallel to the thriving tribes of aaya Rams, gaya Rams and phir lauta Rams.

If I venture to vent my anger and yell, “Sweep away Jharkhand corruption with the Delhi broom,” I may be mistaken for an aam admi which I am not. Ever since I developed diabetes, I am not allowed to suck (on the divine fruit that aam or mango is) except on the sly. And though I admire lotus (the flower), I presently harbor no intention of digging up my neighbor’s backyard to create a lotus pond.

Snakes are bound to multiply there as they have been doing in several other ponds. The addicted lot of Jharkhand hopers has also been slapped enough by the hyper eulogized palm (or hand). And of what use are the bow and arrow in a jungle where wild animals drunk in the unfettered spirit of power and wealth roam about with gay abandon?

But as a proud and birth right holder of the domicile badge of my Jharkhand state, I, like my swindled forefathers before and beyond the whiplashing British and later, the post independence muggers’ eras, continue to stitch my dreams for the fruits of an independent state. Like Martin Luther King (Jr) before me, yesterday I too had a dream but that was shattered; and unlike him, today too I have a dream that hopefully will not be shattered.

Even after political pilferage, there is sufficient water in the rivers, streams and rivulets and from ample rains, all of which, if properly and honestly harnessed and channelized, can ensure good crops; the rich mineral resources can power industries and provide the much needed job opportunities to the domiciles of Jharkhand.

Even the much kicked about and around dreamer dreams of at least a partial realization of his hopes and aspirations. It is never too late to begin even if it has the rider of old disappointments in a new bottle of expectations.

My prayer to the puzzled Creator is, “Dear Dad of besotted generations, let the political players and man handlers of millions of hopes, guzzle down bottles of sour honesty during this New Year celebrations so that, in their now hopefully purified drunkenness, they may purge their consciences and determine to convert at least 10 percent of their poll manifestos.”

That, I finger (and I mean finger), would be a start towards another round of jokes termed ‘progress’. Keep your figures (and I mean figures) and other recyclable assets crossed in a hope to usher in avenues bereft of corruption and corporations. Let the dreams of greens, industrial chatter, progress and smiles start bearing fruit.
Happy New Year and…Amen.
By Goutam Shankar

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