Oh, get lost, really.
Iago, Lady Macbeth—
They’re just thin print, paper.
Those Voldemorts or the Queen of Hearts—
mere pigments on a canvas,
a filmmaker\'s dark trick,
a kind of art.
Poe, Tolstoy, just that, the end.
No. Yunus is different.
He is Carbolic Acid,
one drop to strip society of colour,
of every laugh.
He’s not Sauron,
who casts the dark from a distant eye.
He carves the very bones from our own ribs
to build his personal spire.
He is no Long John Silver
who cries in a copse for stolen coins.
He is Bateman,
counting the corpses behind a smile like polished glass,
and sleeps in the glare of his Nobel Prize.
Hannibal Lecter? He dined on fine art—
Human Consumption!
Yunus, though, swallows entire villages,
entire nations, whispering,
“It’s only a loan.”
Nurse Ratched? She merely set a boundary.
This man steals the fence itself.
He leaves the poor’s dreams
hanging on the wire to dry,
then steps clean over the whole thing
to a different country.
Was Annie Wilkes ever so cold, so systematic?
Norman Bates? A mother\'s secret, a perversion!
Yunus is open, knows everything, understands,
yet with a magnificent smile pinned to his face,
he fills fireflies with gunpowder,
and tells them, “Fly. Fly higher!”
Grendel? Just a brute, a primitive monster, uneducated, so he kills.
This man is an educated monster, with degrees,
knows exactly which tunnel to enter
so the light remains only in his own hand,
and the rest slip down into the dark.
The Joker just played a mad game, smashing things.
But Yunus builds it all,
and sets the trap inside the very architecture.
He’s not Tom Ripley, stealing a life.
He plays God,
and puts the fate of the poor out on lease.
He is not the Wicked Witch who dissolves in water—
no, he sees water and immediately forms a committee,
then sells the dam.
No one has staged a drama
as flawless as Amy Dunne.
Cersei Lannister? Obsessed with the game of power.
This man just buys the playing field,
then smiles as the referee.
Randall Flagg craves Anarchy;
this one wants eternal slavery in the name of Order.
Professor Moriarty is just a petty criminal.
For Yunus, he’s merely a student of arithmetic.
I have seen Yunus.
He stands there,
a Nobel light in his pupils,
and beneath his feet,
the skeletons of a million hungers.
I have seen him,
seen him,
seen him!
He laughs…
and with every laugh,
another act of child labour is born.
Now tell me,
where else do you find such a noble villain?
Where?
Where?
Where!