The boy who dared to drink

Worms in a jar

Once upon a time
there was a pitcher in a school.
The teacher was a demigod,
three bags full –
one for a Brahmin ,
one for a king,
and one for a penny that Dalits they bring.

Once upon a neverland
twice upon a time,
the pitcher taught a little kid –
“Thirst is a crime.
Thy teacher is a twice-born,
life is a scar,
and thou art a worm, lad,
kept in a jar.”

This jar had a quaint name: sanatani desh,
“Your skin is a sin,
kiddo, damned is your race.”
Yet with a paper tongue
drier than a dune,
he drank a li’l drop of the wet mehroon.

Alas!
the thirst was too much to bear,
didn't the books say: “give, love and share”?
Out spread his fingers brave,
touched the pitcher cold,
The teacher was a demigod,
And he, a nine-year-old.

With a punch and a kick
and a well-placed stick,
the boy was tamed,
with a rage unnamed.
The demigod laughed like a sweet limerick.

Bruises on the left eye,
maggots in the right,
black were the lips
to the teacher's delight.
His thirst was sacred, his creed was pure,
his heart is a hole
where death endures.

With a sigh and a ‘why’
and hatred high,
the thirst was named,
in wrath untamed.
The blackboard moaned like a graveyard fly.

Once upon a time
there was a corpse in a school,
Yes sir! Yes sir! Three drops full!
one for a mandir,
one for a crown,
one for a pitcher where Dalits they drown.