Our cynical neighbour Sharmaji was lamenting how the old circus troupes had vanished. “In our days, there was Kamla Circus, Oriental Circus, Gemini, Apollo... Oh, what fun! Clowns, elephants, acrobats!” he sighed. 

Guptaji, never one to miss a metaphor, pounced instantly. 

“Our politics”, he said, “is the grandest circus of them all, loud, chaotic, and gloriously pointless. The ringmasters, dressed in crisp kurtas, crack their rhetorical whips as we clap like obedient seals, convinced that this spectacle is governance. These political hippos have hides thicker than the finance ministry’s red tape. They juggle scams, slogans, and selfies with the swagger of roadside magicians—making grand promises before elections and vanishing afterwards.”

Sharmaji, emboldened, added fuel to the flames. 

“The Left still dances in sepia nostalgia, shouting Garibi Hatao like a vinyl stuck since 1971. Their leaders sip ₹500 cappuccinos in Lutyens’ cafés, tweeting socialism from iPhones assembled by capitalists. One champion of farmers was caught snoozing in Parliament, perhaps dreaming of Marx and organic subsidies in Manali. 

The Right, meanwhile, is busy giving mythology a tech reboot. Ancient India, they claim, had Wi-Fi, nuclear vimanas, and 5G; inflation alone, it seems, is purely modern. They thunder ‘Bharat Mata Ki Jai’ loud enough to drown out inconvenient murmurs about unemployment and vanishing opposition benches.”

Auntie Gyanboti, ever the philosopher, joined in. 

“Regional leaders,” she scoffed, “deserve Oscars for daily melodrama. They fast for ‘state pride’ till dusk and feast on midnight biryani, divine prasad, naturally. Party-hopping has become the new yoga. Every defection is draped in the language of ‘ideological evolution,’ which really means ‘ministerial upgrade.’”

It was my turn to enter the ring. 

“Coalition politics”, I said, “is like a college group project gone wrong, everyone claims credit, no one does the work, and the bridge collapses before the viva. By then, all have resigned ‘on moral grounds’, only to rejoin on ‘public demand.’ Dynasties, of course, keep the family drama alive. From Gandhis to Yadavs, Thackerays to Abdullahs, our democracy runs on family data packs. Youth leaders paraded as reformers think GDP is a clothing brand and GST a new yoga pose.”

Holy Brother Sandy, who’d been listening with monk-like patience, delivered the final act. 

“And then come the elections, the grand finale! The festival of free samosas and fake promises. Leaders vow bullet trains but deliver bullock carts, renaming them Atmanirbhar transport. Voters cheer jingles about Vikas that sound suspiciously like shampoo ads. When the results roll in, every party triumphs, morally, spiritually, or imaginatively. Anchors scream, trolls trend, and we, the ever-cheerful audience, keep clapping. For in the great Indian circus of democracy, politicians crack the jokes, and the people remain the punchline.”