There never was a math as poly
As Shashi Tharoor, gruss Gott and golly:
His mien grave, his accent mysterious
(But cruel voices hiss ‘Another Pistorius!’)
Pay no heed, the calumny is old,
What Shashi touches turns always into gold.
A diplomat, writer, now a historian,
His pincered wit is, verily, lobsterian.
Observe him on stage, waving to acolytes,
Fending queries from moss-covered troglodytes;
So far along the curve you can barely keep up
On Shashi’s ideas the Right doth trip up.
Master of mots, both bon and juste,
Rivals quail, and fail, and bite the dust.
From Twitter to ‘gram, his triumph is plain,
His typos send us to dictionaries in vain.
Do you have a cause, unchampioned but dear?
He’s the man, parachuting in without fear.
A Bill should do it (but the Act will be stuck!)
But brownie points were there to pluck,
And a wedding proposal, also some humour,
But further progress is just a rumour;
Other fields, fallow, untilled beckon
Ideological windmills of number without reckon.
The Tharoor’s big foes are Brits — gadzooks!
We’d forgotten those colonial crooks;
Reparations he seeks, and a sorry, to boot,
For Hastings and Wellesley’s orgy of loot.
Their guilt the Brits have repeatedly shown
(‘But Shashi’s forgotten the Peacock Throne!’)
The Persians, Burmese, Afghans and Turks
Are aghast: ‘He ignored our genocidal works!’
Or the Japanese, for ’43, ’44, ’45 —
But Tharoor dreams only of ‘mea culpa’ from Clive;
Post-colonial, you see, seeking political renown,
Jewel with a conscience of the Stephenian Crown.
We’ve had many PMs, to our great misfortune,
Statesmen and dictators, to realities immune;
To ‘entire pol science’, from a quiet economist
Like doomed puppets in the wind we twist.
Now Tharoor, they say, will take ‘em to the stars;
In which case, goodbye, I’m leaving for Mars.
That’s where I’d wanted to end my verse;
But wait, there is something much worse,
In ’02 (Gujarat) I said I would secede
If NaMo to RCR did ever proceed;
It happened, I was stuck in durance vile —
An exit strategy was never my style.
So here is an idea, my last play,
And Tharoor can take or toss it away:
Your attempts at academia I’ll still deplore,
But parachute politics I may just ignore,
Get a ‘sorry’ from the Mongols, on a contrite note,
And, Chetta, you may (probably) get my vote.