The featured image of this post has been sourced from The Fearless Collective.

वो चिनगारी सरकारी थी,
जो आग बनी है सीने में।

जंगल से, दरिया से, घर से-
सबसे बेघर जब कर डाला,
रोटी की, बेटी-बहनों की-
चिन्ता में पागल कर डाला,
अब मौत भी महँगी लगती है-
हम शाद नहीं है जीने में।
वो चिनगारी सरकारी थी,
जो आग बनी है सीने में।

लोहा-कोयला तुम रखते हो,
साहू का घर भर देते हो-
जन-गण-मन हमको कहते हो,
हमको बेघर कर देते हो,
कड़वी तो ज़हर की है प्याली,
पर आदत सी है पीने में,
वो चिनगारी सरकारी थी,
जो आग बनी है सीने में।

किस दिन फिर कोयल बोलेगी,
नदिया की लहरें गाएँगी,
महुआ की गंध से हो पागल,
कब बस्ती जश्न मनाएगी?
कब इश्क़ आबाद पुनः होगा,
खेतों में गिरे पसीने में?
वो चिनगारी सरकारी थी,
जो आग बनी है सीने में।

On a dark BU highway, CLAT rank in my hand
Giant library tower , rising up through the air
Up ahead in the distance, I hear of submission deadlines
My head grew heavy and my sight grew dim
I had to look for lifelines.
There it hung on the noticeboard;
The list of placements was swell.
And I was thinking to myself,
“This could be Heaven or this could be Hell”
Then he kicked open the door and he showed me my cube
There were voices down the corridor,
I thought I heard them say…

Welcome to the Laa School Life, macha.
Such a BT place (Such a BT place)
But there’s a saving grace.
Plenty of fun at the Hostel Himalaya
Any time of year (Any time of year)
It’s lit af here.

The system is fully twisted, it’s got some crazy demands.
It’s got a lot of shitty, shitty ploys, to bring you despair.
How they dance in the Acad quad, Trying to forget.
But they’ll always remember, and they’ll always regret.

So I called up the alumnus,
“This place is breaking my spine.”
He said, “Be the monster it wants you to be, then the rest will all be fine.”
And still those voices are calling from far away,
Wake you up in the middle of Torts class
Just to hear them say…

Welcome to the Laa School life, macha.
Such a BT place (Such a BT place)
Until you match its pace.
Then you’ll be livin’ it up at the Hostel Himalaya
What a nice surprise (what a nice surprise)
Can I live this life?

Results on the website,
That F by my name looks so nice.
I thought, “We are all just prisoners here, of our own device”
And in my roommate’s chambers,
They gathered for some scenes.
They had won it with skills and belief
But I just couldn’t take this grief.

Last thing I remember, I was
Running for the gate
I had to get that Uber fast
But the app just won’t book it.
“Relax, ” said the night man,
“We have blocked all these sites.
You can drop-out any time you like,
But you can never leave! ”

Welcome to the Laa School life, macha.
Such a BT place (Such a BT place)
Until you match its pace.
Then you’ll be livin’ it up at the Hostel Himalaya
What a nice surprise (what a nice surprise)
Can I live this life?

हर कदम थमती है धड़कन मेरी

हर कदम सहमति है हिम्मत मेरी

हर कदम मुकरती है किस्मत मेरी

हर कदम झपकती है पलके मेरी।

आम है मचलना मेरा इस सफर में

आम है मुकरना किस्मत का सफर में

सफर, जो होता है छोटा इन कदमो से

रास्ता जो बना है इन कदमो से।

ये रास्ता जो जोडें मेरे सफर को मेरी मंज़िल से

उस मंज़िल से, जिसके इंतज़ार में पूरा योवन बीता

जिसके दीदार ने मेरे सफर की थकान को तोडा

जिसके लिए हमने इन कदमो को थमने से रोका।।

I’m done with all relationships –

commitment’s not for me.

“I love you” will not cross my lips,

and rings will make me flee.

But every once a while I find

my nether regions quake

a burning urge consumes my mind –

my hands begin to shake!

There is but one thing I can do

to make myself relax:

A boink! A doink! A shag! A screw!

An explosive climax!

Now, earlier, to find such things,

My gentlemanly self

would visit bars and skating rinks

and brothels for my health.

But just a day or two ago,

while browsing through my phone,

I found an app that made me “Whoa!” –

an app to help me bone.

This lovely find provided me

an endless stream of chicks.

Swipe left and right I did with glee,

upon provided pics.

I’ve done this now, for hours and hours –

I think I’ve found a catch.

Despite my sex-machine-like powers,

I haven’t got a match.

But just as I begin to fret,

my phone gives me a ping.

I needn’t give my hopes up yet,

a girl – this lovely thing –

has superliked my sexy mug

by swiping it up top.

And now, upon my Persian rug,

We’ll make her cherry pop.

Those who date nonconformists often wonder

How they must please their significant other.

But I’ve figured one of these types out:

Let me tell you how it’s to be gone about.

The first thing to do is to stay away from convention

(Fancy dinners are something you must never mention).

Do whatever you can that’s not the norm,

Find a way to not conform.

Don’t gift him on his birthday, because dates are an illusion.

Heck, find him a way to start a proletariat revolution.

Elaborate plans are mainstream; abandoning them is your goal

You must also work to demolish gender roles.

Take selfies and pull funny faces,

Do risky things in public places.

Take him to a talk on workers’ rights,

Debate the Manifesto throughout the night.

But don’t give him flowers, he doesn’t like those,

And don’t take his pictures, he doesn’t like to pose.

But listen and learn from his newest stories, please

And write him poems just like these.

Surprise him with amateur stand-up comedy shows

Take him to a part of town that no one knows

Find a cuisine that you’ve never tried before

And eat at roadside stalls some more.

But when you meet him, hold him close

Run your fingers over the bridge of his nose

You’re so much in love, you know it well

But you don’t have to say it: he can tell.

O sweet-faced, soft-eyed Medusa of steely heart

We bow before thee, offering obeisance to thy wickedness

Clad in unsuspecting innocence. Thy power over us is unmatched

For thou could be the difference between Life and Death

Pass and Fail

Attendance and Shortage, yet none have

Understood the caprice that governs thy bureaucrat’s mind

Capable of spinning out regulations on the fly

And leaving even students of the law dazed.

I’m lying back on my couch, making love while the nation burns

In a pixelated fire, conjured daily in news studios and fuelled by

The words of errant anchors; words that the nation doesn’t want to know

And would be better off silencing, really.

I shift beneath him and sigh, arch my back, my eyes shut:

While a woman loses face to blackness and pain

I voluntarily embrace the blindness that pleasure brings.

I listen not for the sounds of dissent, or the sounds of hatred and jingoism

Echoing down my street

But for the sounds of interruptions – was that a key rustling in my lock?

Are my roommates back? No, thank God –

Never mind that the water has been mostly cut off

And they could be in danger somewhere in this city

I wet my lips with desire.

He breathes down my neck, and his stubble prickles deliciously.

I believe the sweet nothings he whispers in my ear in the heat of the moment

It’s a collective disease of the nation, isn’t it? Believing too soon, I mean

But I pay no attention except to the slow-building ecstasy

And the release doesn’t clear my mind, but makes me want to

Snuggle closer into the web of lies that comforts me, stroking my hair.

As if I were a child and not an adult capable of political expression

Whose death could be of consequence, worthy of consideration.

He falls asleep on my arm, oblivious to my pain

Snoring while I struggle to extricate myself from under him

I finally feel his weight, pinning me down, rendering me unable to breathe

Yet I hesitate to wake him – I love him, after all

And he needs the rest, as all protectors do.

And so I suffer in silence for him.

Because the alternative would be waking him up.

The alternative would be watching his fair and handsome features

Arrange themselves into a disapproving frown

Or worse, a look of pain – ‘I thought you loved me.

Look at my mother, my sister – they laid down their lives so I could live

And you would not tolerate even a bit of pain for my comfort?’

I don’t want that conversation.

And to love him is my duty, regardless of whether he loves me back.

So I tire not of mindlessly repeating the words to old songs

Proclaiming undying love, and thinking of his mother and his sister

And their selfless love

And like a good girlfriend

And a good nationalist

I slather on the makeup to hide my bruises.

(Dedicated to the Boys’ Hostel)

From day to day, and time to time

I feel the thick and sticky grime

Upon my forehead, on my nose,

Between my fungalicious toes.

It slowly oozes whilst I sleep,

Into my skin pores it does seep.

It makes me smell both sweet and sour,

But I still do refuse to shower.

When rugby or cricket I play,

the sweat and mud upon me may

stick upon my neck and palms,

within my hairy underarms.

And then, from there, that rotting grime –

it makes my body smell sublime!

It stays there, stuck, for hours and hours,

But still I do neglect my showers.

And once a way, I am inclined,

within a bar to myself find.

Awaken when I do next noon,

A whiff I whiff that makes me swoon.

I stumble, and my head does hurt,

I wear a urine-soaked blue shirt.

But though caressed by puke and wine,

My showers I still do decline.

Then, one day, as I walked the street,

And filled it with my smell so sweet,

I heard the sound of scream and shout

And men began to run about.

A small old lady pulled a knife,

And stabbed me till she took my life.

Now bleeding out, though, here I lay,

I’ve still not showered to this day.

A look of horror on my face

and my mouth begins to mumble

I feel my heart begin to race

and my footsteps start to stumble

I slowly get up off my seat

as my face starts turning blue

My life begins to feel off-beat

Forsooth! I need to poo!

I rush into the nearest stall

squirming with unease

My pants and boxers I let fall,

I unclench and release

Amidst a din of gassy sounds

My face begins to glow

With the rhythm of machine gun rounds

I reach a steady flow

I squirm and struggle for many an hour

And time begins to bend

When suddenly, like Hiroshima,

It comes to an explosive end

A rush of joy runs through and through

I keep my head held high

With a solemn face I leave the loo

Exhausted I let out a sigh

But joy gives way to woeful moans

For when I let one rip

A sound I heard that chilled my bones

The soft murmur of a drip.