On my morning walk I pass his home on the sidestreet on which it stands. The house has a lofty name: Dhavalagiri, or The White Mountain. There used to be a majesty to the house in the morning air, with the police cars on the hidden end of the short street and a police picket on the end that opens into 80-feet Road. The policemen sprawled on plastic chairs and read the papers, and in the cars plain-clothesmen and uniformed men dozed while they waited. By the white SUV of the master of Dhavalagiri his driver stood about, wearing all whites and shiny black shoes. Like the driver the master wore whites and the master’s companions wore whites also, and as they drove off the colored beacons would begin their roll on top. The sirens were seldom sounded.
Today all that has ended. The master has been brought down, and the policemen are absent before his house, and in today’s breeze on his street a sheet of paper and some dried skins of fruit blew about. The police barricades seemed forlorn without the policemen standing by them.
I will miss the daily sights on this point, I will miss the driver tutoring the policemen on statecraft: “politics means that, saar." I didn’t like the politics of the man, but I respected him for the fight he gave each time his opponents reached out to pull him off his chair. It was always many upon one, and the man fought with the pluck of Jackie Chan. I didn’t like how he went to temples to cure every cold he caught; I liked how he stood up to everyone, eyes blazing, whiskers bristling. But I am happy he is out, even if I am anxious regarding who might take his place, and to where our fate-line has turned.
Time has come when our ruler can be brought down on a corruption charge. The courts have stayed mining at last, and have taken note of the socking dealt to the ecosystem in Bellary. The bosses in Delhi of our man’s political party are struggling to install a man in our state who may be seen and believed as clean. After this, the ruling party in Delhi would be forced in its turn to cleanse itself. The activism of the middle class is working; hopefully, when elections come, the rural vote will match the mood in town.
Hopefully, my nation will be cleaned up in my lifetime.