9-17-2026
Birthday satire
poem
A Chai Cup, a
Pill, and a Puffa
On the 76th birthday of Prime Minister Narendra Modi
With birthday greetings from Sham Misri
Part-I [From Vadnagar]
From Vadnagar’s lanes, where kettles sang
And railway whistles rose and rang,
A young boy served the
steaming chai,
Who knew he’d one day make the headlines fly?
No dynasty’s gate, no silver spoon,
No English accent in a drawing room;
Just tea, hard work, a dream held tight,
And a habit of turning talk into light.
He debated boldly, swam with cheer,
Played kings and heroes without fear;
Then toward the Himalayas he went one day,
To ask the silent peaks the way.
From ashram paths to public ground,
He found a louder calling sound;
From Gujarat’s charge to Delhi’s throne,
He made the vastest stage his own.
At seventy-six, the birthday bells
Ring louder than political decibels;
For while some leaders count their years,
He counts new projects, goals, and cheers.
Part-II [Dimagi Naxal]
At Red Fort, where the tricolour flies,
He sent one phrase into the skies;
The nation paused, the anchors yelled,
And every panellist’s heartbeat swelled.
“Dimagi Naxal!”—the words took flight,
And studios booked debates that night;
Some clapped with joy, some frowned with pain,
Some searched the phrase again and again.
“Is it me?” cried one intellectual face,
While scrolling fast in digital space;
“Is it him?” asked another with dread,
As prime-time thunder shook the head.
Part-III [Homoeopathy Pill]
Then at SRCC, with comic skill,
He called that phrase a homoeopathy pill;
A little dose, a gentle bite—
Yet critics coughed the whole long night.
“No substance there!” some loudly said,
“But why has everyone lost sleep instead?”
The pill was small, the reaction grand—
A self-diagnosis across the land!
Part-IV [Naraz Puffa]
Then came the Naraz Puffa, round and sore,
With spectacles, outrage, and much more;
He puffed at breakfast, puffed at tea,
And puffed at every TV screen he’d see.
His WhatsApp group had admins galore—
One thousand twenty-four, perhaps more;
Their daily prayer, both sharp and rough:
“Why is this chai-wallah doing so much stuff?”
One elder Puffa rose to say,
“Our old privilege is slipping away!
Words must come from elite salons—
Not railway stalls or humble lawns.”
A younger Puffa, meek but wise,
Looked through his foggy, worried eyes:
“But sir, he is Prime Minister now.”
The elder puffed: “That is the problem—how?”
Part-V [At BRICS]
Then Bharat Mandapam opened wide,
And world leaders came from every side;
At BRICS, in Delhi, India stood
With handshakes, dialogue, and global good.
Brazil and Russia, China too,
South Africa and partners new;
They came to speak of trade and peace,
Of innovation, growth, and global ease.
The New Delhi Declaration took its place,
With cooperation written face to face;
Resilience, sustainability, innovation’s flame—
And India chaired the global game.
The Naraz Puffas watched in fright:
“Why are global leaders here tonight?
Why is Bharat in the centre seat?
Why does this diplomacy look so neat?”
Xi and Putin, presidents near,
A summit full of global gear;
And there stood Modi, calm and bright,
Turning a meeting into India’s spotlight.
Part-VI [Modi at 76]
At seventy-six, on September’s day,
The greetings came from far away;
For a son of Vadnagar, born in 1950,
Still sets the nation’s clock safely.
Then memory opens February’s door,
When I met Modi ji—not once before;
A warm handshake, steady and bright,
With a calm, smiling face and eyes of light.
No camera crew, no breaking-news cry,
No panel shouting, “Explain this, why?”
Just one firm clasp—yet I must confess,
My hand felt charged with political excess!
His smile was calm—serene and bright,
It made a nervous author feel quite light;
I thought, “This is no ordinary chai—
It is courage and energy passing by!”
Even now that handshake stays in mind,
A memory warm, enduring, and kind;
Its wave still travels through palm and pen—
Perhaps that is why I am writing again.
The Naraz Puffas, on hearing this tale,
Turned pale, then puffed beyond the scale:
“A handshake too? This will not do!
Now Sham Misri will write a poem or two!”
But I replied, with a writer’s grin,
“When warmth and goodwill travel within,
Let Puffas protest, let pundits sigh—
I shall still raise my cup of chai.”
So, raise a cup—not only tea—
For service, strength, and energy;
For phrases that make the pundits cough,
And Naraz Puffas puff and scoff.
May health and purpose light your way,
May Bharat rise in every day;
From Sham Misri comes this birthday cheer:
“Modi ji, may your vision shine year after year!”
Part-VII
[Yed Vaer]
And now, before the banquet ends,
Before the Puffas call their friends,
One final Kashmiri cry we hear—
A grievance, comic, loud, and clear:
“Yed vaer!”
“Why was no non-vegetarian dish served
here?” [2]
The Puffas sighed, their faces tough—
“Global leadership is fine enough…
But without a proper feast, we say—
What kind of birthday is this, anyway?”
With warmest wishes, Modi ji, may your purpose
ever shine,
Sham Misri
salutes your journey, strength, and vision divine.
