T.S. Eliot dubbed April 'the cruellest month' in one of his poems. I am sure he had his reasons for doing so, but it does reveal that he was not one of the 40 million-odd Indian taxpayers. For, had he been one, he would have vehemently disagreed. In India, the cruellest month is July, and it has nothing to do with a delayed monsoon or a pensioner's annual ordeal of submitting a 'life certificate' to prove that he is still alive and kicking.

The cruelty of the month derives from the fact that it is when we have to render unto Caesar what is definitely not Caesar's. A large part of the wages of our toil has to be handed over to Ms Sitharaman as income tax, along with an ITR that is as decipherable as the Dead Sea Scrolls and requires an expensive CA to complete.

I have just shelled out one-fourth of my annual income, comprising pension, interest from fixed deposits, a dash of capital gains, and a drizzle of royalties and remuneration for my books and articles from grudging editors and publishers. The wolf is not at my door yet, but it is getting closer every year.

And, for the life of me, I cannot see the justice in the government looting a large portion of my coffers every year without doing anything for me in........

© National Herald