all hail the emperor of india: the man who will be king

jun 4th, 2010

RajeevSrinivasa 

hereditary emperor of india prepares to ascend throne. arabs, whites, hans delighted: india slave nation ki jai. 

http://nyti.ms...

on his personal merits alone, minus the dynasty tag, rahul gandhi would not be elected to the proverbial post of municipal dog-catcher. he looks eerily like dan quayle: the 'lights are on but there's nobody home' look. 

the main reason for the success of the nehru dynasty: all the clever 2nd tier politicians who have made absolute billions hiding behind them. all of them need a pliable not-too-bright person as the figurehead while they make hay. 

what ov vijayan said about the big guy, jawaharlal: on the money. from my column 'let us now praise famous men', http://www.rediff.com/news/1999/sep/16rajeev.htm

The beloved leader fled, in his solitude, to escape from the screams of the kothwal, from the accusing ancestral voices, from their loving sorrows. The sight of his flight thrilled the illiterate bystanders. Ecstatic, they cried: India's yaga stallion, he who cannot be tied up by anyone!

My cherished people, he said, his voice dulled by thirst: I am nobody, I am merely one who has worn the vestments of the king of the starving. I claimed to have discovered India, but all I saw was, like Narcissus, my own aged face in the flowing mirror of the Ganga. Ganga, mother, daughter, sister, lover, why did you not cover up the wrinkles on my face? My god, I did not discover anything, other than myself; and other than the throne I built for my daughter and my grandson. My god, forgive me, a revolution cannot exist without self-glorification; the glimpses of world history that I have seen frighten me.

With the anguish of the prophet, he hastened down the path covered with rocks and thorns and obstacles. The herds of goats on either side of the path became curious. Their unlettered tongues made odd sounds that turned into words. They said, India's man of the millennium, our king of the goats!

The fleeing recluse cried, my fellow beings, I am nothing; I am running away from my grandfather's outcry, his poverty, from the sweat-scent of his police uniform. Not only from that, but also from the untold generations of poor ancestors -- they who came from somewhere, who knows where, and settled on the banks of a river. My forebears, who accepted the name of the river as their family name: ferrymen, fishermen, those who filled their stomachs with dreams. I turned their hunger into the sweetness of banquets. Those who stood on either side of the path applauded. They said: king of the starving, please host more banquets, let us understand how emperors taste sweetness.

When finally, he fell, exhausted, broken-hearted, the crowds grieved for him. When that beloved corpse began its final journey, the black sky rained gently, like mother's milk; and the earth quaked.