Home: 100–200 sq. ft.
Ten, twelve people stacked.
Migrants, strangers, cousins, children —
crammed in shadows where sunlight never reaches.
Charas.
Ganja.
Drugs move faster than school books.
Adults use it.
Now children try.
Some don’t stop.
Violence is normal.
Murders are whispered, expected.
Fear is training.
Toughness is survival.
Being Gunda is a badge.
Pockets are empty.
Debt is permanent.
Hunger is quiet.
Dreams are rare.
Outside, the city glitters.
Glass towers. Bright roads. Speed.
Inside, life barely fits.
Slowly, childhood is stolen.
Dreams are postponed.
Aspiration is labelled impractical.
Yet the child walks out —
with questions in the eyes,
with courage stitched quietly into the day