A Selfie-King!
Am the czar.
Of a State I finally split. After tremendous amount of struggle.
Where innocents took to streets, to cook food on roads. In mass protest.
Where a few gullible, unfortunately lost lives in acts of self-immolation.
Where I had to fly a thousand miles to prostrate at the feet of a seamstress presiding over destiny of billion-plus land of Gods, Demi-gods and mortals who failed to see devilry of evil ones. Behind the facade.
Where, behind the curtain parleys were held across different walks of life. Where a parallel society agreed to merge to form the mainstream .
Where actors turned leaders. Where leaders were mere puppets.
Where mass media enacted few hyperbole scenes.
Where frustration of six decades was converted into mass hysteria .
Where losers turned winners.
Am a winner.
It’s all only dinners now. My progeny is more secured than of most other politicians. Son, A king. Daughter, an empress. All by design.
Seamstress who let her gang-men split a large State on assurance of merging my outfit with her band and enable her paramour to head the new State is busy fighting her own demons. Am a winner because I was too busy with post-bifurcation delight and had conveniently forgotten my word of merger. It’s purely political opportunism. Not a betrayal.
Am emperor of all I survey.
I was given ten administrative districts. I have multiplied my importance by dividing them all into a total of thirty-one districts.
Oh, yes, I have not touched the Zilla Parishads and let them be as they are. Wherever they be. Schools would be aided now only by the district collector who owns up the ZPP. In case of tussle, these educational institutions would be left as relics of the past. As pre-State formation structures – dilapidated, uncared for and ruined relics of a United, composite State.
Am a visionary.
Each district had a collector, a superintendent of police and eight State vehicles. Sub-staff of course are attached as a paraphernalia. Now, it is 31-collectors, 31-SPs, 248-State vehicles. That many multiples of surrounding staff.
So many newer opportunities created by one man. Avenues for broking services, party units at grass-root levels of governance increased. By a master-stroke!
Am a dipsomaniac.
I love my bottle of tonic every which minute. Pitiably, there are only 24-hours in a day. How I wish I could even stretch the clock for higher consumption, increased productivity levels.
Am Henri Fayol and Frederick Winslow Taylor put together in devising scientific management principles.
There is a meeting once in the pre-sanction stage through three trusted lieutenants, for a brief five-minutes meeting. The prospective partners-in-progress commit to a fixed percentage in my presence. I nod . They pump my hand and leave with faces beaming.
And, the only other meeting is when they return to honour commitment in form of liquid cash bags.
All voluntarily. Happily. For all parties concerned.
Am a man of few words.
No two words tally my other statements. Be they electoral promises. Or, official statements. I am a silent observer. I bug my nemesis, my ex-political boss. I tape all conversations. Of him, his son, his orderlies. I hate discrimination. I levy taxes on erstwhile companions of governance. I am a man òf commitments. I stand committed to my world.
My own world.
Who am I? Tuglaq? No. Hitler? Not at all.. Saint? Of course not…
Well, have already the entered annals of history, in my lifetime .
Secret?
In my drunken stupor as a young lad in my remotest village situated in a dense forest reserve area, I had stamped the tail of a little brown fox . That Lady Luck courts blindly superstitious proven again ?
Am a monarch. Of all I survey. None has temerity to question me.
No, am no hallucination.
I am real.
A Living example of anarchy’s wild game of robotic governance style.
Touch-me-not …!
Ps:-
Any resemblance to persons alive or dead is merely coincidence by fiction.
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