Gali Kand: Terrified of Losing, He Even Dragged His Mother’s Ashes Into Politics
Gali Kand:
Terrified of Losing, He Even Dragged His Mother’s Ashes Into Politics
The real abuse to any mother is
when the public calls her son a thief, and he does nothing to defend his
innocence despite controlling every branch of government capable of proving it if
he truly is not a thief.
It appears that Modi and his
media strategists achieved precisely what they had set out to do: divert the
national conversation away from the Vote Adhikar Yatra and shift it
toward the spectacle of Gali Kand. Even social media, often quick to
call out political maneuvering, fell headlong into the trap. This diversion had
a deeper purpose. By pushing the public discourse toward petty theatrics, the
focus moved away from the Election Commission of India and the judiciary,
giving them breathing space to strategize and perhaps devise additional ways to
manipulate electoral outcomes. Yet this game of distraction may not unfold
exactly as the BJP anticipated. Opposition parties, rather than remaining on
the defensive, appear to have recognized the tactic and begun playing offense.
Ironically, the very distraction meant to weaken them could end up inflicting
more damage on the BJP’s narrative than they bargained for.
What stood out as particularly
shocking was BJP leader Ravi Shankar Prasad’s bizarre attempt to measure and
compare the “magnitude” of a gali. One is left asking who exactly this
performance was meant for?
It led me to recall a poem I once
wrote, imagining how Modi’s mother had she been alive would have felt watching
her son exploit her image yet again for political gain. In life, she was
paraded as a symbol of sacrifice and morality. In death, she has been dragged
back into politics, used once more as a shield against his critics.
Most politicians, for all their
flaws, draw a line before stooping so low. But Modi has never been “most
politicians.” He is a product of Gujarat’s political laboratories, carefully
conditioned to say anything on stage without the faintest trace of remorse. His
greatest skill lying with the conviction of truth was not an accident, but a
craft he perfected.
Modi himself admits to having
spent time with sadhus, men who built their reputations on selling illusions.
That training shows. How else can one explain the audacity of claiming they can
put life into a stone and convincing millions to believe it?
How else can one explain his
claim that Rahul Gandhi should apologize for profanity allegedly directed at
Modi’s mother? A deeper look revealed the remark was not aimed at his mother at
all it was an insult directed at Modi himself, uttered by a planted provocateur
with no link to Congress or the RJD. Still, Modi seized on it, Godi media
amplified it, and the spin cycle began. This is the well-worn Modi playbook:
manufacture chaos, cast himself as the victim, and shift the headlines. But
this time, the mask slipped. The fingerprints of the BJP were all over the
disruption, making clear who was truly behind the so-called outrage.
India is no stranger to the use
of stories as instruments of power. For centuries, storytellers have been
employed to shape social perception, often to manipulate and mislead. Today,
Godi media plays that very role, modern-day storytellers pumping poison into
the public bloodstream. Carefully crafted narratives, paired with the theatrics
of staged disruption, serve to incite division and, ultimately, violence. What
we are witnessing in Bihar is the convergence of these tactics: propaganda and
provocation, hand in hand. The goal is not governance but control, maintaining
power at all costs, even if it means pushing the nation toward destruction.
Unless the people of India
recognize this poison for what it is and stop passing it down through their
families, the cycle will continue. A distraction here, a provocation there, and
the real issues of democracy, accountability, and justice slip further out of
reach. The story of Gali Kand is not about a careless insult. It is
about a system that thrives on distraction, one that will trade the soul of a
nation for another headline.
A Mother’s Cry
To whom shall I confess this pain,
Brought by my own, my heart in chain?
The child I bore, with love so true,
Has fooled the world, betrayed me too.
Ashamed I stand of deeds he’s done,
Why he acts so, I know not one.
I’d left his memory far behind,
Yet now he comes to haunt my mind.
Ashamed I feel when he appears,
With crowds that shout their hollow cheers.
He wants the world to see, to know,
That still to me, some tie may show.
He robs the poor, their wealth he takes,
Then spreads it wide for rich men’s sakes.
Why acts this monster in such a way?
I fail to grasp it day by day.
Now calls me “mother” to the crowd,
Though years ago he disavowed.
He never asked if I was well,
Not once his lips my name could tell.
What false display is this he weaves?
A drama staged the world believes.
He sits beneath my feet in show,
Yet fakes and cheats where’er he goes.
Ashamed am I of what he’s done,
He’s crushed the dreams of everyone.
How can I call him still my son,
When all together, they weep as one?
For power’s sake he’ll stoop so low,
Even from kin, betrayal flows.
He makes them curse me in their cries,
Then weeps himself with shameless lies.
The truest curse he gave to me,
Was when he said, “You’re not my tree.
I came from heaven, not from you,
No bond between us can be true.”
In alleys dark I hid away,
Afraid to meet him, come what may.
Among my children, false he proved,
Why sang the world of him, unmoved?
My children taught me truth instead:
Those who adore him live in dread.
They praise a tyrant, cruel and cold,
And fear his wrath, so tight their hold.
The king of lies, he wears the crown,
Oppressing people, striking down.
The world deceived by tricks so cheap,
And now he robs them in their sleep.
In mother’s eyes are tears today,
But whom to mourn, what words to say?
The wife he spurned, the vows he broke,
Since then a bandit’s path he chose.
Now all declare with scornful breath,
He’s sold the nation unto death.
O God, what sin was mine to bear?
He’s left me shamed beyond repair.
When he comes forth to meet me near,
I shrink in silence, filled with fear.
An old, frail woman I’ve become,
Each step now aches, each movement numb.
His circus makes me dance as well,
This hypocrite with lies to sell.
He chants my name with hollow song,
While his men sing his praise all along.
Such colors India’s tale will show,
Where thieves are worshipped, idols grow.
Just wear God’s mask, don holy thread,
And fools will hail you in His stead.
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