Capital protest pain and rambles

At Jantar Mantar, people come with
banners. Any protest, to any degree, is
an art. People come to protest from all over

the nation, from Punjab and Haryana and Kashmir
and Manipur and Andhra Pradesh and Uttar Pradesh
to protest the heat, protest the hike, protest the hoard,
to protest everything under the sun. People come and
leave and their suasion, but it's just a daily function
and the burly policemen, if not for their unamusing  

patrolling, they would watch as yieldingly as the
retaining walls, the road divider and others in
the locality, and the only thing the police
would do is to count the number of
people to report to their head
office, the number of
the people
who scream,
"Protest is an art

of fucking oneself."
The number really
matters because we
are in a democracy,
which is based on the
number of people you
can spoon feed. Once the
trees told me, the asphalt road
reminded me: What is really important
when there is a huge barbwire between
the mainland and a hinterland. We are tired
of screaming, yelling till our breath reaches the arse
that we have been living in the house of a step mother,
that the unity-in-diversity rhetoric is a garden of corpse flowers.
Yet the only thing we need is some shared consciousness of humanity.
Many protest forms do exist — it divides, the style becomes more
varied because nobody cares. Like a drunkard who, wishing for
a change, drinks only at even hours leaving the odd hours, any
protest should go for a change otherwise a disagreeable

person like me can also feel the pulse of the dutiful
people, like the policemen smirking behind the
retaining walls of Jantar Mantar,

and my ink is drying up.

[Unconscious Line Breaks]