After our beloved Prime Minister Mr. Narendra Modi, made his 'fakir speech' dated 3rd Dec. 2016, at Moradabad, Uttar Pradesh, where he addressed quasi-innocent people of INdia, of course, on his outings for vote-seeking. I wish that, his quotes are going to ring in our 'ears' for 'years-to-come', at least upto 2019. Here is a link to Jagran.Com, which contains a link to his speech-video, in addition to some quotes from his 'fakir speech'.
"... All those who are Jan Dhan account holders, you should not return the money that others have put in your accounts. If you promise to do so, I am working hard on to devise a formula to send all those who deposited their money illegally into your accounts to jail and to ensure the money goes to the poor households. ..."
"...I am being hounded as if I have committed some crime by waging a battle against graft. But, what can my opponents do to me? I am a fakir (hermit)...jhola ley kar chaley jayenge (I will exit with my little belongings)..."
"...You are my leader...I have no high command ..."
"...These people in white T shirts are helping people understand digital transactions, now your bank is in your mobile: PM Modi in Moradabad pic.twitter.com/Yw9hLtNF7I — ANI UP (@ANINewsUP) December 3, 2016..."
"... Aajkal log poora din 'Modi, Modi, Modi' kar rahein hai, pehle bolte the ‘Money, Money, money': PM Modi pic.twitter.com/i7MVF2x7YJ — ANI UP (@ANINewsUP) December 3, 2016 ..."
"...Shouldn't I fight corruption? Is fighting corruption a crime? Why are some people calling me a wrong doer for fighting corruption..."
"...I had not been able to come to Moradabad in 2014. I did come in 2009. Always felt sad I couldn't come here for so long ..."
His speech took me to my twenties (seventies of the Christian Era). Not only in those days, even now, I continue to be a fan of Late Samuel Longhorn Clemens, popularly known as Mark Twain, in English Literature. While I like all his works, particularly one chapter in his novel "Mysterious Stranger" frequently rings itself into my ears, and also peepingly intrudes into my dreams. I am tempted to reproduce those few pages in their entirety.
"...We were traveling at the time and stopped at a little city in India and looked on while a juggler did his tricks before a group of natives. They were wonderful, but I knew Satan could beat that game, and I begged him to show off a little, and he said he would. He changed himself into a native in turban and breech-cloth, and very considerately conferred on me a temporary knowledge of the language.
The juggler exhibited a seed, covered it with earth in a small flower-pot, then put a rag over the pot; after a minute the rag began to rise; in ten minutes it had risen a foot; then the rag was removed and a little tree was exposed, with leaves upon it and ripe fruit. We ate the fruit, and it was good. But Satan said:
“Why do you cover the pot? Can’t you grow the tree in the sunlight?”
“No,” said the juggler; “no one can do that.”
“You are only an apprentice; you don’t know your trade. Give me the seed. I will show you.” He took the seed and said, “What shall I raise from it?”
“It is a cherry seed; of course you will raise a cherry.”
“Oh no; that is a trifle; any novice can do that. Shall I raise an orange-tree from it?”
“Oh yes!” and the juggler laughed.
“And shall I make it bear other fruits as well as oranges?”
“If God wills!” and they all laughed.
Satan put the seed in the ground, put a handful of dust on it, and said, “Rise!”
A tiny stem shot up and began to grow, and grew so fast that in five minutes it was a great tree, and we were sitting in the shade of it. There was a murmur of wonder, then all looked up and saw a strange and pretty sight, for the branches were heavy with fruits of many kinds and colors—oranges, grapes, bananas, peaches, cherries, apricots, and so on. Baskets were brought, and the unlading of the tree began; and the people crowded around Satan and kissed his hand, and praised him, calling him the prince of jugglers. The news went about the town, and everybody came running to see the wonder—and they remembered to bring baskets, too. But the tree was equal to the occasion; it put out new fruits as fast as any were removed; baskets were filled by the score and by the hundred, but always the supply remained undiminished. At last a foreigner in white linen and sun-helmet arrived, and exclaimed, angrily:
“Away from here! Clear out, you dogs; the tree is on my lands and is my property.”
The natives put down their baskets and made humble obeisance. Satan made humble obeisance, too, with his fingers to his forehead, in the native way, and said:
“Please let them have their pleasure for an hour, sir—only that, and no longer. Afterward you may forbid them; and you will still have more fruit than you and the state together can consume in a year.”
This made the foreigner very angry, and he cried out, “Who are you, you vagabond, to tell your betters what they may do and what they mayn’t!” and he struck Satan with his cane and followed this error with a kick.
The fruits rotted on the branches, and the leaves withered and fell. The foreigner gazed at the bare limbs with the look of one who is surprised, and not gratified. Satan said:
“Take good care of the tree, for its health and yours are bound together. It will never bear again, but if you tend it well it will live long. Water its roots once in each hour every night—and do it yourself; it must not be done by proxy, and to do it in daylight will not answer. If you fail only once in any night, the tree will die, and you likewise. Do not go home to your own country any more—you would not reach there; make no business or pleasure engagements which require you to go outside your gate at night—you cannot afford the risk; do not rent or sell this place—it would be injudicious.”
The foreigner was proud and wouldn’t beg, but I thought he looked as if he would like to. While he stood gazing at Satan we vanished away and landed in Ceylon.
I was sorry for that man; sorry Satan hadn’t been his customary self and killed him or made him a lunatic. It would have been a mercy. Satan overheard the thought, and said:
“I would have done it but for his wife, who has not offended me. She is coming to him presently from their native land, Portugal. She is well, but has not long to live, and has been yearning to see him and persuade him to go back with her next year. She will die without knowing he can’t leave that place.”
“He won’t tell her?”
“He? He will not trust that secret with any one; he will reflect that it could be revealed in sleep, in the hearing of some Portuguese guest’s servant some time or other.”
“Did none of those natives understand what you said to him?”
“None of them understood, but he will always be afraid that some of them did. That fear will be torture to him, for he has been a harsh master to them. In his dreams he will imagine them chopping his tree down. That will make his days uncomfortable—I have already arranged for his nights.”
It grieved me, though not sharply, to see him take such a malicious satisfaction in his plans for this foreigner.
“Does he believe what you told him, Satan?”
“He thought he didn’t, but our vanishing helped. The tree, where there had been no tree before—that helped. The insane and uncanny variety of fruits—the sudden withering—all these things are helps. Let him think as he may, reason as he may, one thing is certain, he will water the tree. But between this and night he will begin his changed career with a very natural precaution—for him.”
“What is that?”
“He will fetch a priest to cast out the tree’s devil. You are such a humorous race—and don’t suspect it.”
“Will he tell the priest?”
“No. He will say a juggler from Bombay created it, and that he wants the juggler’s devil driven out of it, so that it will thrive and be fruitful again. The priest’s incantations will fail; then the Portuguese will give up that scheme and get his watering-pot ready.”
“But the priest will burn the tree. I know it; he will not allow it to remain.”
“Yes, and anywhere in Europe he would burn the man, too. But in India the people are civilized, and these things will not happen. The man will drive the priest away and take care of the tree.”
I reflected a little, then said, “Satan, you have given him a hard life, I think.”
“Comparatively. It must not be mistaken for a holiday.”
We flitted from place to place around the world as we had done before, Satan showing me a hundred wonders, most of them reflecting in some way the weakness and triviality of our race. He did this now every few days—not out of malice—I am sure of that—it only seemed to amuse and interest him, just as a naturalist might be amused and interested by a collection of ants..."
yb-a-donkey's humble views, which are not intended to be imposed on others:
Mr. Arvind Kejriwal, AAP Leader and the Delhi Chief Minister, commented immediately, responding to the stimulus made by Mr. Modi's Fakir's Speech.
"...PM calls himself a hermit, but wears a suit worth Rs 10 lakh and tours the world ..."
Modi ji you (call yourself) a fakir? Everyday, you wear four new pairs of clothes, you wear a Rs 10 lakh suit and tour the world. People have lost trust in your words
Though what Mr. Kejriwal said about Mr. Modi's changing five new dresses every day, and wearing a suit costing Rs. 1 million is apparently factually true, it is too early for Mr. Kejriwal to say that Mr. Modi lost the trust of the people. Even educated people seem to trust him sincerely, continue to trust him, without any strong logical reasons.
Mr. Narendra Modi uses expensive pens: MontBlanc. His watch is Movado. His spectacles are Bylgari. His suits and kurtas are designed and stitched by Jade Blue, of Ahmedabad.
According to the Dec. 3, 2016, Moradabad Speech of Mr. Narendra Modi, even beggars in India, use POS machines.
To continue. और लिखनीय है। ఇంకా వ్రాయాల్సింది ఉంది.
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