Tuesday, April 20, 2010


By Badri Raina

There is a fling to your hair,

And a mouthful of accent

To your words—

All redolent of a boyish

Amour propre.

Charming assets to a cloistered

World. Or to Tory English politics.

Here, in this land of subtle

And immemorial guile,

The merely smart are soon found out.

And those that float on sporty self-love

Brought down with a thud.

Thus, O Tharoor, swim not

In seas whose density you know

But scantily, as in some bright

School text book,

But return to your alma mater, namely,

A close-circuit Bloomsbury life,

Laced with wine, women, and converse.

Write those poems that you can,

Watch those high-falutin films,

Play golf, ride horses, try out a sports car,

And end your day at an English bar.

Then stretch your patrician legs,

And smile at politics from afar.


Navdeep Sihra said...

I really enjoyed reading it :)

gurdev chauhan said...

Tharoor is a very good poem, a finest satire at that!

kudos to Badri!

T S Anand said...

Well expressed impressions of Tharoor from the pen of Badri Raina.