The Taxman Always Rings Thrice

Ah, the joys of saving!
I once saved a rupee, no, a thousand, no, a lakh.
Tucked it away in my old locker, guarded by dust and a loyal cockroach.
Then came the demonetisation hurricane,
And overnight, my hard-earned savings became antique collectibles.
“Legal tender?” they scoffed. “Not anymore. Should’ve kept up with the news!”

Fine, I thought. Lesson learned.
The government wants my money seen, counted, and approved.
So, I turned to the banks, those so-called temples of savings.
“They give double returns,” said my enthusiastic neighbor Ramiah,
Who was always too eager to invest and too slow to withdraw.
Sure enough, the maturity day came, and with it, the taxman.
“Tax on your interest, sir,” he declared. “Tax on your reward.”
My reward? For saving? For planning ahead?

Then there were the schemes. Oh, the schemes!
“Save for education,” they said. “Save for marriage.”
“Save for health and your dream house,” they chimed.
I did. I saved. I waited. I hoped.
And when the day of reckoning came,
The taxman arrived once again,
Smiling like a cat that had found the cream.
“Your savings have matured. Now it’s our turn!”

Now, let’s talk about awareness.
They say, “Ignorance of tax laws isn’t an excuse.”
Oh no, your lack of awareness doesn’t make you innocent.
It makes you an easy target.
Your ignorance, dear reader, is their revenue.
Didn’t know there was a tax on something? Too bad—it’s still due!
Missed a filing date? That’s a penalty.
Missed the penalty? That’s a fine.
Before you know it, you’re paying more for not knowing
Than you would have for simply paying the tax!

And let’s not forget the daily taxes—
On what I earn, what I eat, what I buy, and where I live.
My morning chai? Taxed.
My bread? Taxed.
My complaint about all this? Still free—for now.

Meanwhile, the big fish swim far, far away,
Leaving us small fry to plug the gaps.
They run from their debts and sip fancy tea in foreign lands.
And we? We clutch our pay slips, calculate our dues,
And whisper prayers to appease the tax gods.

But where does all this money go?
Ah, that’s the great mystery of our times.
The roads are still full of potholes,
The hospitals still look like train stations,
And every rupee still finds a way to disappear,
Like water in the desert sands.

So here we are, saving for the future while taxing the present.
Perhaps I’ll write a letter to the government someday.
Though I suspect there might be a tax on that too.