Nautanki Baba Turns 75: A Country Rolls Its Eyes

 

Nautanki Baba Turns 75: A Country Rolls Its Eyes

The disappearing act, the country has gotten used to.

Hindi Version: https://rakeshinsightfulgaze.blogspot.com/2025/09/75.html

So the grand spectacle arrived. Narendra Modi, self-styled savior of India and full-time brand ambassador of himself, turned 75. Normally, birthdays are a time for cake, laughter, and wishes. But for Nautanki Baba, it was mostly hashtags, effigies, and students chanting “Vote Chor, Gaddi Chhod.” The Godi media, of course, tried to turn it into a spiritual event anchors practically chanting mantras on live TV, reporting as if India’s fate itself was celebrating. The rest of the country? Not so enthusiastic.

Modi had hoped that by the time he hit 75, the nation would be begging him to ignore the BJP’s own retirement rule and cling to power for another decade. Instead, his birthday trended as National Unemployment Day. Instead of flowers, his admirers offered him burning effigies. If this is love, one shudders to think what hate looks like.

Meanwhile, Rahul Gandhi’s famous Hydrogen Bomb against Modi remains in cold storage. Perhaps Rahul lost the remote, or maybe he’s waiting for the planets to align. Rumor has it, potential collaborators are too busy avoiding prison to lend him a hand. Or maybe Rahul finally realized that in India’s news cycle, today’s “explosive” revelation is tomorrow’s meme. By the time he presses the button, Godi anchors will have already shifted the debate to whether a BJP spokesperson’s pants slipped on TV by accident or divine design.

The BJP IT Cell, of course, didn’t miss a beat. Bollywood stars, cricketers, retired politicians everyone’s timeline flooded with suspiciously identical birthday greetings. A forced smile pasted on Twitter, while outside, people were fuming over joblessness and inflation. The dissonance was almost poetic. This is a Prime Minister who has managed to become the only leader in India’s history that people actively don’t want to see even when disaster strikes. Floods, cyclones, earthquakes earlier PMs brought hope. Modi? He brings cameras. People would rather rebuild their broken homes than host his photo-ops.

And then there’s his love affair with the skies. More miles logged in his ₹8,400 crore private jet than in confronting the nation’s crises. Mann Ki Baat at 35,000 feet is his idea of governance, while onions hit ₹80 a kilo on the ground.

History will remember other leaders with dignity. Nehru: Chacha of the nation. Indira: Iron Lady. Rajiv: modern India’s visionary. Shastri: Jai Jawan Jai Kisan. Vajpayee: the man who gave India nuclear pride. Manmohan Singh: the quiet architect of liberalization. Narsimha Rao: the reformer who turned crisis into growth. And Modi? Vote Chor. The Prime Minister who quadrupled India’s debt, privatized the country into the hands of a few friends, corrupted every institution in sight, and still managed to spend more time posing for cameras than solving problems.

So yes, Nautanki Baba turned 75. But the celebration was hollow, the candles dim, the applause missing. Behind the birthday hashtags lies fear, fear of what happens when the chair is pulled away, when power slips, when the man who built a cult of personality finds himself alone with only the mirror for company. Happy Birthday, Modi Ji. India didn’t clap; it sighed.


Modi Turns 75

For so long I kept on thinking,
What words to Modi I should be bringing.
Seventy-five years, you’ve crossed that line,
So here’s my greeting though it’s hardly divine.

You wished to be Nehru, high and tall,
But “Vote Thief” is the name you’re called.
When people gather, face to face,
You vanish quickly without a trace.

Such a “popular” leader they say,
India’s never seen one this way.
He robbed the nation, bold, outright,
Such open theft, a shocking sight.

To raise himself, he pulls all down,
Truth revealed he hits the ground.
So proud, so vain, he lost his stand,
Even forgot Lord Ram firsthand.

Made Ram look small to crown his fame,
Declared himself a god by name.
When one must praise himself nonstop,
Something’s fishy the mask may drop.

He steals elections, claims the prize,
But everyone sees through the lies.
A poor man, dressed in suits of gold,
While the nation sinks, his tears are sold.

In wrinkled eyes, when tears appear,
The crowd forgets its pain so near.
They run to him, they clap, they cheer,
Not knowing their grief keeps him here.

Who builds great palaces out of lies,
Deserves the madhouse no disguise.
Let truth be fed to him each day,
Perhaps his madness fades away.

The first Prime Minister, history recalls,
Who got cursed on his birthday, insults and all.
Effigies burned, the people say clear,
You’re a thief, Modi we’ve no cheer!


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