A Drunkard's Wobble

Three years at a stretch,

I saw him twice a day

He was a loathsome pathetic wretch

Once in the morning, once in the night

Crossing the shanty slum

I found myself pitying his plight

He was just one among the many,

drunkards who resided adjoining the canal,

That’s a small consolation one could derive if any

Every morning, misty eyes forming Serpentine queues,

Pinning their solace on the elixir of

Liquor as their life-saving avenues

Prepping to secure their daily ration of booze

Poor fellows didn’t realize or really cared

A sight of repugnance that it used to ooze

As the shop opened at sharp Nine

A pandemonium ensued, as my man

Almost everyday lead the line

A jobless youth in his early thirties

I used to vaguely surmise

Caught the eyes attention at roadside booze parties

I spotted him too many a time,

Whipping out his cheap whiskey bottle

With his precious add-ons of Pickle and lime

The dim precincts of the ramshack TASMAC

On my return from office homeward

The sight I beheld on the Tarmac

Many a time did depress,

The soul twisted, bent and broken

But hopelessly unable to express

As young men, in the prime,

Of their lives, lay inebriated on the street

Shaking their bodies essaying an act of mime

Amongst them was my favorite fellow,

Wasting a life ahead of him, and how

I wished I could once stop by to say Hello

I am sure the tavern might have spat out this unruly inhabitant,

Or he just had a tad too high to walk, but that’s nothing surprising,

for with the dirt cheap liquor all this was concomitant

Then one day I plucked up my nerve

To ask him why he drank everyday

He was already sloshed as he began to swerve

He practically had no answer,

But whatever t'was unless something was done

I knew he might soon be a victim of cancer

Many young men hitting the bottle

The state is in total shambles

The problem will soon begin to throttle

Unemployment, depression and lack of self-esteem

Root causing the rampant spread of alcohol addiction

But what can we as society do to redeem?

As one can only lament, incapacitated and helpless

When getting to the very bottom, we see

The problem is from the Government worthless

State-owned TASMAC shops given a free hand

With an ambition to create an army of drunkards

having no values of their own or an ability to stand

How else will they get their subsidies

To run One-Rupee canteens and sponsor

The free Rice, TV, Mixies & other freebies

The women of the household continue to fight,

Braving the hurdles of poverty and societal discrimination

As men continue to present a deplorable sight

One day as I was returning, I came nearly on the verge of despair

Piling crowd, around the hutment, as the sound of women

Weeping, wailing and miserably crying rent the air

There was no point getting enraged

The lifeless body of my alcoholic friend on a pier

The sight I beheld was one which I had long back envisaged

The rate at which he was drinking, the poor forlorner

The visit of the impending guest

Liver Cirrhosis would soon be around the corner

When he simply couldn't solve alcohol addiction

I am sorry, but I couldn't help thinking on such gory lines

His looming demise, became an easy prediction

The procession commenced with death beats and the customary Chennai dance

Making way to the nearest graveyard. Would have been nice

If only God had chosen to give the corpse one more chance

A silent tear trickled down my eyes

As I muttered a prayer for the departed soul

My heart heavy-laden, head pointing towards the dark skies

This is just one tale straight of my bosom,

Which tells the plight of many a Tamil Youth

The incidents represent a microcosm

Of the dire situation where we wallow,

If there is anything you can do now, that’s

A bitter truth you'd better swallow

The proud Tamil race known for its history and valour,

Languishing under a kakistocratic reign of mediocrity

Victimized by a putrid cesspool of political squalor

There is one party which silently chuckles,

As the TASMAC cash counters keep ringing

Easily thwarting the occasional rap on the knuckles

All is soon forgotten, until the materialization of the next hoopla

When alcoholism consumes its next hapless prey, while  

the Mannargudi Mafia gleefully continues to rake in the moolah