Politics in this country is not just any profession. It is a money-minting, or rather, money laundering vocation that turns the human being into a blood-sucking vampire. A perfectly warm-blooded civilised human being turns into a remorseless, conniving, self-obsessed, selfish entity, all at the drop of a hat or, in this case, as soon as the neta topi lands on the head.

And the best part is that while the physical appearance of the neta continues to appear human-like, the true colours remain hidden under the layers of expensive khadi. The common populace that is fighting to make ends meet and provide two meals to its near and dear ones are the eternal bakras for these fang-happy khadi wearers.

The poor always look up to the neta to rid them of poverty, to provide them with clothing, with employment, with decent housing, with water in their taps, with consistent electricity in their homes, with security on the borders, with law and order in the streets, with justice in the courts, with peace in their neighbourhood. But alas! None of the above has been delivered over the 60-odd years of our independent existence.

We still continue to fight over our rivers, we still quarrel over our borders, we still stay prepared for power cuts, we still stock up for water cuts, we still ration our kitchens in fear of riots and curfews, we still continue to battle poverty, we still continue to grease palms, and over and above all, we still continue to look up to our netas.