Most Respected Nirmal Baba,
Accept my koti koti pranaam.
You’re a
soul so divine, so pure,
The savior
of our janata so aam.
The wrinkles
of experience on your face,
The grayness
of wisdom in your hair,
Bless us
through the words of godliness,
That generously
from your lips appear.
But unlike
my Bham-Bhole Shambu,
You don’t
put your third eye on display.
Is it hidden
under your clothing,
Or preserved
in your Colaba duplex?
Behold the kripa of the third eye,
That
provides solutions from its hidden abode.
To questions
that no other prayers could answer,
With a
perspective unmatched by Adobe.
My friend
was a poor eighth pass,
A divorcee,
job-less and insane.
In return
for a meager ten percent,
Baba
promised to eradicate his pain.
“Babaji, mujhko chain nahin,
Kaise main roti khaun?
Na pakaane wali ghar pe,
Na koi paisa jo kama ke laaun.”
“Tum pehante rubber ki chappal,
Kabhi pehne kya sports shoes?
Kaise hogi kripa tum par Lakshmi ki,
Agar bane rahe kanjoos?”
He ran to a Lakshmi mandir,
And searched
for the perfect pair,
That would
change his life forever.
Oh behold, a
Nike Air!
To escape
any suspicious eye,
He darted
with the shoes on his feet.
He scuttled
for his life on NH8,
In Dilli ki badhti heat.
A Mercedes
he did run into,
That almost
gave him a kiss.
But he fell
on the highway open armed,
Though he
was saved by two inches’ miss.
“By Golly, driver bhaiya,
Yeh kya kar diya aapne aaj!
Isse le chalo jaldi se hospital,
And throw some money for his ilaaj.”
Three
thousands he was paid in cash,
And a bottle
of Glucose at Apollo,
That he
drank through his mouth,
Quenched his
thirst, and walked away solo.
He wrote a
cheque of Rupees two hundred
To Baba’s
PNB Savings Account.
As part
payment for the instant income,
That in
excitement he could hardly count.
He strolled
down the streets of Pahar Ganj,
A meal at
Sam’s Café he wished to devour.
With twenty-eight
hundred in his pocket,
He could eat
as much as his tongue would savour.
A firang with thighs so white,
Puffed smoke
on his face so brown.
She flashed
a tattoo inked on her belly,
In her
beauty our friend did drown.
The words
that she said with a smile,
Went above
his balding head.
But from the
table that served falafel,
To the
neighboring room they tread.
Love sweet
like lemony ganna juice,
They both
made the following night.
Her
piercings, total of twenty-four,
Did clang on
the armor of our knight.
To the Qutb
Minar he pointed high,
And later
straight to the India Gate,
During the
Metro trip that they made next day,
Which they
marked as their first real date.
“Nirmal
Baba, oh Baba!” he cried aloud,
With joy
dripping from his eyes.
Not just had
he found his doosra prem,
But a job
opportunity in disguise.
“I marry
you, my kaju barfi.
I earn from
guide work here.
Then I fly
you to country of your choice,
My pockets
full; don’t fear.”
Then before
he retired for the night,
And practiced
making babies with the babe,
He ran to
the PNB branch nearby,
And wrote a
cheque from the money in his jaeb.
A cheque of
hundred he honestly deposited,
Keeping the
promise of full ten percent,
That the
Baba had to receive as guru-dakshina,
Calculated to
the last earned cent.
The night
that followed was fulfilling,
He got massages
from fingers of white skin.
And he lay
in bed till twelve noon,
When he
opened his eyes to the sin.
“Uski sister, uski mother, uski holy cow!
She take my
money! She pimp! She tout!”
And he jogged
on the streets in his VIP,
That the
lady had left without.
Our hero
couldn’t find himself another client,
No one was
ready to pay for a tour.
The Delhi
sun shone bright on his head,
And left him
crying like a man so poor.
To the
Nirmal Darbar he rushed next day,
“Oh Baba, kripa mein hai rukaavat.
Mere sapnon mein phir se lagi aag,
Main toh kar dunga aaj bagaavat!”
“I paid in
cheque full ten percent,
And not a fifth,
or a quarter or a half!
Then why
have my wishes been taken back,
Main maangu aaj tumse insaaf.”
“Kya TV pe ghoshna na tumne kabhi dekhi?
Main na leta cheque na Promissory Note.
I want payment, beta, of full ten percent,
Either by DD ya Gandhi wale note.”
And all
praised the Baba in Nirmal Darbar,
For his word
that has always been kept.
Our hero was
guilty of breaking his promise.
So, no one
cared when he sat there and wept.
To you, my
friend, I must tell.
My Baba is so
just and fair.
He gives
solutions to all your problems,
Don’t you
cry alone in despair.
He’ll ask
you to write with a Parker pen,
If you’re
flunking your CA exams.
He’ll
command you to eat samose,
To cure your
wife of the terrible spasms.
His third
eye has a simple solution,
For any
problem that you wish to share.
Only a
payment in cash or by Demand Draft,
From your
income is what you need to spare.
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